Midnight Blues
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: In hindsight, becoming mercenaries might have been a bad choice. But what other choice did we have: one man's entire life savings raided, the other poor to begin with? Hermione didn't approve, but when did we ever actually listen to her? Poor life decisions, I swear. Not slash.
1. Guy Ritchie, or: It's Been Emotional

**Disclaimer: **Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Notes: If you're here looking for some sweet sweet Harry/Ron slash, this isn't it. Both characters are hetero, as will be made abundantly clear in this chapter, and they both have girlfriends (though I use the term lightly). The reason why they're the listed characters is because Harry and Ron are the main _characters_ rather than the main pairing. Basically, I got sick of seeing the bashfest most authors on FF seem to love to do to Ron. He's Harry's best friend for a reason, and this fic is supposed to showcase it.

THERE ARE A FEW MAJOR DIFFERENCES TO CANON:  
- Tonks lives, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bite it in the Final Battle. Remus still dies.  
- Ginny and Harry do not immediately get back together after the War.  
- Harry's small circle of friends from Hogwarts are expanded, including Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and a select few Slytherins.

* * *

**Midnight Blues**

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

1. Guy Ritchie  
or,  
"It's Been Emotional"

* * *

Birmingham, UK  
February, 2005

What do I know about boxing? Not a whole lot, actually. Sure I understand it as a concept: you have a punch-up with another bloke until one of you falls over, too exhausted or too punched-up enough that he couldn't continue. No, it was the rules of it that didn't make much sense: Apparently there are places you can't punch; you can't kick; you can't grapple. Sounds mighty limited to me.

Thankfully, unlicensed bare-knuckle boxing doesn't concern itself with rules. It's just "beat the snot out of the other guy in any which way until he's down". I happen to be very good at that. Beating the snot out of other people, I mean. And in some cases, beating the snot out of very bad people.

My name is Harry, and apparently I was named after a famous Broom-racer who died in a flaming wreck. I don't know many people who've been named after crisped broom-racers, and I probably should be thankful for that. Everyone here calls me Mickey, though.

I don't know why, I just think they like nicknames.

The bloke I am in a punch-up with at the moment is an unlucky, but generally good chap named James (coincidentally, my middle name), but everyone calls him Gorgeous (it's one of those ironic nicknames, because he's got a face like a bag of spanners), and his nose is currently being broken by my fist.

It's not a pleasant sound, though it's one I've become used to over the past eight years. A broken nose makes exactly the noise you'd expect it to: a wet crunch, like corn cereal and milk.

A distant roar registers in my ears as Gorgeous Jimmy staggers back into one of the small wooden boards enclosing us in a makeshift hexagonal ring. He stumbles into the waiting arms of the encroaching crowd behind that small wooden board and is promptly thrown back to center-ring. I feel wet blood running down my nose, courtesy of a vicious headbutt from Gorgeous.

But the fight is very close to over now. He's seeing stars, I can tell, only because I feel much the same way. Gorgeous looks up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes, and makes one last charge toward me.

For a second, everything slows down: I can see the dirt on the concrete floor shifting underneath Gorgeous' feet; I can see everyone of the crazy, bladdered, roaring crowd behind him, waving their arms and screaming; and his right haymaker is projected miles away. I feel as if I have all the time in the world when I sidestep the punch and drive my own fist into his gut. He sinks and stands motionless for a second, the inertia from stopping so much weight makes my arm quiver in protest.

But, nevertheless, he stays for that split second. Enough time for me to raise my left fist, and let loose a vicious hook to his temple.

He falls.

The crowd roars again. It's good to be me.

I head home that night to a modest two bedroom, two bathroom Birmingham flat two thousand quid heavier. I pass several concerned neighbors inquiring about my bloodied forehead, black eye, and bleeding lips with a careless nod and enter the flat.

Waiting there for me is a brown-haired surprise.

Hermione Granger is one my oldest friends, and possibly the person I feel safest confiding in. That, however, never means I _will _confide in her, a fact that she handles gracefully, if not a little sulkily. Add to that, she is an insufferable worrywart. I've been doing what I've been doing for eight years now, and yet she's afraid it's the end of the world every time I come home with a cut lip.

What's ironic is that she showcases less concern for on-again, off-again boyfriend than me.

"Harry!" She exclaims, bringing her hands to her mouth as she gives me a once over. "What in Merlin's name have you been doing all night!? It's two in the bloody morning and you show up like you've gone on a bender!"

Ah, Hermione, bless her soul. She really knows how to be excessively loud in the wee hours of the morning.

"Bareknuckle boxing match again, Harry?" Another voice growls out from the hallway, apparently having been woken from sleep.

That's Ron Weasley. My red-head best mate. The left hand to my right, the yin to my yang (he's definitely the more feminine of us two). A lot of people, at first glance, would wonder why it's Ron that's my best friend and not Hermione. Hermione never outright 'betrayed' me by leaving me during the Triwizard tournament or in that tent. But I would say to them that while my friendship with Ron has been more tenuous than mine with Hermione, it has been made stronger through strife.

In any case, he's like my older little brother. A little too gung-ho, a little too overzealous. I keep him out of trouble so he can come home to Hermione and complain about not getting enough sleep.

"Be merry, Ronald, for I have secured rent for the month," I reply.

A redheaded man steps out from the darkness rubbing his eyes and yawning. "How much did you make?"

"Two thousand quid. Nothing to sneeze at, and worth a black eye or two."

Ron smirks. "But that face is your only asset. Whatever will you do now?"

Hermione glowers. "How many times have I told you two to get _real_ jobs?"

Ron glares back. "And how many times have we told _you_ that the Aurors pay jack-shite?"

"And it's not like we don't need the money, given that I'm destitute and Ron has to be a professional youngest brother," I snort. "Bloody Goblins."

"Harry!" Hermione admonishes loudly.

"What? They're _pricks_!"

"_Harry_!" Hermione repeats with emphasis._  
_

Ron is quick to jump to my defense. "Well, they are."

"_Ronald_!"

Now, before you jump to conclusions and start saying I'm a goblin-hating racist, I implore you: hear me out. No doubt many of you have heard of the great Gringotts' Break-In of '98 and the damage it caused to our esteemed bank. You probably would think that I would have to pay for it, a reasonable request.

No. Not so reasonable.

Why?

Because Gringotts fucking _bankrupted_ me.

You see, apparently Voldemort found a way to cut into my bank account during that wonderful, wonderful year on the run and used it for parks and recreation funding or something because I have not seen _where_ that money has gone. Easy fix, right? I save the wizarding world, so you'd expect the money that was stolen from me to be restored, right?

You guessed it! _Wrong_.

The Ministry claimed that the Goblins had a security leak and so they should give me my money back. The Goblins told me it was the corrupt Ministry that stole my money, therefore they should pay me. The Ministry told me to fuck off because they didn't have any money when I came back, and the Goblins threatened a war should I bother them again.

As I'm leaving that cursed bank, one of them has the _gall_ to tell me I owe them a quarter million galleons for the dragon and damage to the vaults. All this after _admitting_ they lost 4-and-a-half _million_ galleons of my money.

I held my tongue and walked away... until he informed me I also owed 20 galleons for owning a vault with no money in it.

Now, I'm no pacifist, but I don't think myself as being homicidal either. But in a lapse of judgment, I cursed the little blighter and nearly started another Goblin War. Worth it, though. Bill tells me about the Goblin who starts belching up turds between February 5th and 20th every year.

It took a lot of arse-kissing to get back on the goblin's good side from my dear friend Hermione here while she was working for the Department for Regulation of Magical Creatures. They told her they wouldn't rebel if I never entered Gringotts again. And strangely enough, Hermione, who is usually so thoughtful, agreed. Of course, she didn't realize she'd been outplayed by the little wrinkly-skinned knobs: being banned from Gringotts meant that while they didn't get paid for the damage caused by the dragon, they _also _didn't have to reimburse me my due.

Cunts.

Naturally, Hermione was apologetic, but I waved her off. It wasn't her fault; it was the goblins. 'Course, however, seeing as how I was broker than broke and the Aurors don't pay much of anything until you've gone through their three-year training program, that 'dream' went down the toilet. There was the possibility of working at George's joke shop, but I guess it wasn't really for me. Then one day, I was in Diagon Alley with Ron and we saw a flyer that stated Lord Darrow, Head of one of the Ancient Houses, would pay for anyone who could recover his missing daughter who had been kidnapped by raiders wishing to ransom her.

On a whim, Ron and I took the bounty and tracked the kidnappers to Dover.

Long story short, one grateful young woman and a couple of dead raiders later, we were heading back to London to collect a five-thousand galleon reward.

And from then on, that's what we did. We became bounty hunters, mercenaries, private investigators... anything a client needed. More profitable than being a junior Auror, I think. Hermione doesn't quite know what we do (although she knows it's probably illegal), nor does she approve, but, well... fuck her, she lost my money.

"Harry," Ron begins, ignoring Hermione's outrage, "we've got a prospective job tomorrow. I need you up and able by nine. No, not ten, not half-nine, _nine_."

"What's the job?"

Hermione huffed. "I really wish you two wouldn't talk about this in front of me."

I never look away from Ron as I speak to her. "I say this with all the love I can muster, Hermione, please shut up."

"Jerk."

Ron ignores Hermione again. "Well, you see... it's kind of... not something you'd want to talk about in front of a Public Defender, if you know what I mean?"

"Is it illegal?" Hermione deadpans.

Ron shrugs. "Only in some countries."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. Ron ignores her _again_.

I don't know he does it. When Hermione raises an eyebrow, it almost inevitably means pain, but Ron shrugs it off like she's child throwing a temper tantrum. I'm practically terrified of that eyebrow. It amazes that he isn't.

"So is that a yes or no?" Ron questions.

"Okay," I reply. "Nine on the dot. Now I'm going to take a shower. My face fucking hurts."

* * *

The next morning I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, and walk out into our living room to find Ron watching a cartoon on telly and Hermione sizzling rashers of bacon. I suppress a groan: Hermione is an amazing woman with many talents.

Cooking is not one of them.

Thankfully it's bacon, not even Hermione could ruin that. I settle into one of wooden chairs around a small eating table and look up at Hermione, who turns from the bacon, wearing an apron and having haphazardly thrown a dishrag over her shoulder, and gives me a worried once over:

"How's your face, Harry? Not hurting you too much, is it?"

I smile. Hermione's always been a nurturer. It's probably why Ron took to her so much, especially after his own mother, Molly, was murdered by Bellatrix Lestrange in that last battle, struck by an errant killing curse intended for her daughter Ginny.

"I've had much worse, Hermione. A few punches won't do much of anything to me."

"If you're sure," she begins dubiously.

"I'm sure," I reply softly. She merely nods and returns to the bacon.

"Oh, shite," Ron mutters as he walks into the kitchenette.

Hermione whirls on him, alarmed. "What is it, Ronald?"

"I thought it was Harry cooking. Face it love, you're a poor cook."

"_I'm_ a poor cook!? Oh, I'm_ so-rry_ 'ye who never gets off his bloody arse'!" Hermione shrieks, obviously insulted. She rants something at Ron, whose ears turn red and he rants something back and pretty soon they're arguing over nothing and everyone loses, especially my fucking ears. But I can't help but grin: some things never change.

Later that day, I find myself staring at a building in the middle of muggle London with Ron standing at my side. Hermione went to her depositions or whatever it is Public Defenders do, and we aimlessly wandered to this slightly decrepit office building. But, nevertheless, we went inside and found a bustling department of... something or another. People moving this way and that for reasons completely unknown to me. I can't honestly say I know why we're here or even what 'here' is.

The Office is pretty standard, cubicles, typewriters, the whole caboodle. A blonde woman walks by and gives me a suggestive wink. I nod. Ron grouses about how I get all the attention.

We're greeted by a strange man in a three-piece suit who takes us into his office and gives us a job: we're supposed to kill a man who is to be coming into London through Heathrow as the vanguard for a group of blood mages in two days.

We're given a file that has a picture of a blond-haired man with a goatee who apparently has an Auror's license and a name we recognize. The man in the three-piece suit notices us giving that bit of information the stink-eye:

"He's a turncoat. We sent him in to expose the Bloodies, and now we have evidence he is, indeed, working for them."

Blood Mages are nasty little blighters, sacrificing their own life force for powerful magic. I was protected by blood magic once, but most blood magic is far more dangerous and far more destructive than my mother's sacrifice. And boy, are they destructive! They can curdle your blood in the veins, and even control people's thoughts. This comes at a cost, though. While powerful, they're not exactly what you'd call sane. Blood for brains, I suppose.

We've axed several of them, and I reckon that's why Ron and I have been called to take out the trash.

We accept, and leave. When we're a suitable distance away, I ask Ron who those people were, and he merely tells me they are government-affiliated. That's enough for me, I don't like to know more about government hits than I have to.

"Hey Harry," Ron starts suddenly mid-trek, "isn't today Thursday?"

That brings a smile to my face. "Why, yes, Ron. Yes, it _is_ Thursday."

We turn around and sprint in the opposite direction.

* * *

The Horizon Bar is a classy place. Which is funny because it's run by Seamus Finnigan, the least classy man I know. He's a good bloke, but an alcoholic and an unrepentant womanizer. Which makes it all the more amazing that he scrounged up the money to open up this place, a lounge bar with dimly lit lights and leather booths ringing the walls. Truthfully, we shouldn't ever come here, because all the money inevitably funds Seamus' eventual jaundice, but it's too good a place to really care.

Seamus' best friend Dean and the last part of our power quintet, Neville Longbottom, both usually show up on Thursdays. That hadn't always been a good sign. For close to six months, Neville and I couldn't stand to be in the same room over certain... unresolved issues. Said issues have since been resolved and we once again enjoy an easygoing friendship.

Ron and I have already been drinking and eating for close to an hour when Dean and Neville enter the bar. Seamus grins behind the bar, hops over the serving table and runs to the door, closing it behind the newcomers and putting up a closed sign over it, before rushing back to the booth we now all occupy.

I look over the group with a smile.

Dean Thomas is a powerfully-built man, which serves him well as a Hit Wizard. He's proud of that, being the only one out of his five actually in government employ when we had all expressed interest in being Hit Wizards or Aurors. Of course, if he knew how much work Ron and I steal from his department, he wouldn't be so smug. Nevertheless, he's an alright bloke.

While we had all found our respective callings: Seamus in alcohol, Dean in duty, and Ron and I in fast cash; Neville found it in academia. While not teaching at Hogwarts yet, he has written several books on Herbology, two of which are used at the school: one for first years, the other for NEWT-level students. He is currently in a fairly serious relationship with Susan Bones, who is a coworker of Hermione's, but works as a prosecutor.

Every Thursday, we get together for drinks and poker, passing the hours by and mostly complaining about our girlfriends. I hear our girlfriends do the same thing about us every Saturday.

I catch glimpses of the conversation but mostly retreat into my own world:

"Oh, God, it's a good thing you took Hermione off the market, if she and Harry..." Seamus was saying to Ron.

"...Could you imagine their kids?" Dean continued. "Bossy little bookworm knot-heads who grow up thinking they're superior because they listen to Modest Mouse and Franz Ferdinand? They'd be absolutely fucking _intolerable_!"

"...she's literally the worst cook in the world and yet she refuses to let Harry cook, right? Harry?" I hear Ron saying, snapping me from my reverie. I look down at my cards and back at Ron.

"Hmm... what?"

"Hermione, cooking?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, she's shite at it, though I think it's nice that she tries. It's the thought that counts."

Ron snorts. "Yeah, yeah, I'd prefer sustenance, mind you."

I laugh with the rest of the table. He may not show it all that well, but Ron really does adore Hermione. I'm fairly sure they're much more tender around each other when I'm not around. They _could_ stand to treat each other a little bit better around others, however.

"Well what about you, Pots?" Seamus chuckles, "everything still peachy keen for the couple of the century?"

"Ginny hates it when people call us that, you know?"

Neville shoots me a look.

"Well?" Dean questions. "Any annoying habits?"

I do my best impression of Hermione's eyebrow-raise. "I am a gentleman, sirrah. And gentlemen do not tell."

"No fun," the Hit Wizard sighs. I shrug.

"I'm thinking of proposing to Susan," Neville cuts in quietly.

Ron and Neville both shoot me a sideways glance, as if to see what I'd think of the union. Soon Dean and Seamus are staring as well:

"What are you looking at me for?" I ask nonchalantly. "I'm not the one getting hitched."

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the normally cheerful table.

We stay for a little while longer, discussing the ins-and-outs of proposals, and then tell the other trio that it's been emotional, but we've to take our leave.

* * *

Ginny Weasley is a joy, don't get me wrong. She's smart, she's vivacious, she's looks pretty good naked, and she's great company, but she's not _it_. She's not what Neville sees in Susan. You know? The _one_. She doesn't have that magic, the kind you see in films. It's good, but not great. She's it, but not _it_.

I must sound like a moron.

Hermione always tells me how I'm lucky to have someone who loves me like Ginny (I think she's just grousing about Ron, though), but I don't feel it. Over the past few years, something has withered in me, and I don't think I'm quite capable of loving her back. I had my chance, and I missed it. So I'm half-here, half-invested in this relationship that I don't think I'll ever fully invest in.

It's probably why I'm monologuing to an imaginary audience in my head instead of listening to Ginny talk about the things that move her. She's a sports reporter with The Daily Prophet and she likes quidditch and she... and she...

Nope that's about it. That's really all I know about her. For all people say about us being the couple of the century or my father and mother reborn, we may as well be strangers bumping uglies. I don't know much about her, and I'm not really attracted to her anymore. She's fit, for sure, but as I said: she doesn't have the magic.

"So what do you think, Harry?" Ginny asks suddenly, breaking me from my reverie.

Suddenly, the world seems to return to me. We are sitting in a snazzy restaurant: candles everywhere, roses on the table, and we're nestled into a nice nook where nobody will come by to disturb us. Ginny wears a breathtaking, strapless red dress that just makes it look as though she was born to eat at places like this: a perfect place for a date, an even better place for a proposal. Maybe I'll toss Neville a bone and book him and Susan this table the night he proposes.

"Oh, I'm sorry Gin, I was a bit distracted," I reply with an apologetic smile.

Ginny also smiles, but shakes her head as well. "Puddlemere and Winbourne. Day after tomorrow. I've got box seats and an extra ticket? Can you come?"

"You know I'd love to, Gin," I grimace, "but Ron and I have a job at Heathrow. We won't even be in the same city."

Ginny looks somewhat downtrodden, but immediately covers it up with a grin. "You're always so _busy_, Harry Potter. One day, you and Ron are going to have to show me what it is you two really _do_."

"One of these days," I affirm.

I feel bad. I shouldn't lead her on like this.

* * *

_"Do you know why we make a good couple?" I am awoken to that question. I turn to see a halo of golden hair to my left, her back to me. "It's because we're friends. I think a lot of couples forget they were once friends."_

_"You think?"_

_She turns, her angelic face and light green eyes surveying my own. The white comforter atop us both shifts as she moves her arm up to grasp my hand:_

_"I know."_

_I smile. She does, too. And then she says something baffling:_

_"Don't be afraid."_

And then I am awake. Alone in my bedroom in the flat I share with Ron with a black blanket over me rather than the fluffy white comforter I remember from my dream. I look over to my nightstand, compelled to open the second drawer to make sure _it_ is still there. So I pull the drawer open and find the little black box there still. As it was over a year ago when I had first put the box there, hoping to forget about it.

But some things are never forgotten, are they?

I fight back a sigh and survey my clock. Ron and I have to be at Heathrow in three hours. Best to start to getting ready now. I take a shower and brush my teeth, trying to ready myself for the day and rid myself of the dream. My combat attire assists of a stitched shirt that's enchanted to be stronger than the toughest of muggle of kevlar, trousers, thigh-high doesking boots, a gift from an elder on a Native American Reservation for job I did three years ago, and an enchanted, hooded, coat-like robe.

I step into the kitchenette to find Hermione reading the morning news. She looks up and appears to choke on her tea:

"_That's_ your combat robe?"

I chuckle. "Much stronger than it looks. Besides, wait 'til you see Ron."

Said man stepped into the kitchenette approximately six minutes later a dark grey coat, black trousers, and steel-tipped boots.

"Don't you think you two will look out of place in a muggle airport?" Hermione questioned.

Ron shook his head. "We'll be in the magical section. Everyone will look like this."

* * *

"So this guy's coming in from where?" Ron asks for clarification as we wait in the arrivals area of M-Terminal (Magical Terminal) 4 at Heathrow's Magical Section. I cross my arms and lean back against a pillar for support:

"Moscow, right?" I reply, "That's what the guy who gave us the job said, didn't he?"

"Moscow, Moscow," Ron taps his chin. "Russia's a silly place, don't you think? What with its Companyism and whatnot, right?"

I chuckle. "_Communism_, Ron. And the Communist Government fell about fourteen years ago."

"Communism! That's the word!" Ron laughs, "Still, doesn't change that its a silly place. Even the muggles there are backarsewards. Don't even get me started on the magicals."

"Oh, have you been?"

"Yeah, for a little while when you were off in America killing off Bigfoot or whatever it is Americans do."

"Okay, so what's so backwards about the Russians?"

"Well... have you ever stabbed a person before?" Ron questions nonchalantly.

I shrug. "Once. But it was a Succubus who was trying to 'steal my seed', so I don't count it."

"Why not!?"

"Because she was a fucking demon! I don't feel bad about stabbing rape-happy demons!"

"Did you have a knife?"

"Yes."

"Did you put it in her?"

"Don't make it sound so _tawdry_, Ron," I say cheekily.

"Did you take the knife... and stab her?"

I sigh, knowing I won't get anywhere this. "_Yes_."

"Then you fucking _stabbed_ her."

"But she wasn't a person. She was a demon." Before Ron can respond, I groan, deciding to change the course of the conversation. "Why, have _you_ stabbed someone?"

"Yeah, for a hit. And I suppose that's a normal request for a hit, even though it'd be much easier to off him with a wand, but they like doing things backwards like that in Russia." Ron begins, stroking his chin with a gloved hand, "I was in Petersburg, and a mobster wanted another mobster dead 'cause the guy shagged his wife or something. They were both scumbags, so I didn't really feel too bad about putting this guy six feet under. But the guy who gave me the job gave me a weird request."

"What was that?"

"To stab the mark in the fucking mouth. Said he wanted to make sure 'the little fucking cunt' never spouted another lie again."

"Hmm... I _guess_ it's poetic."

"That's not even the best part. He wanted me to strip the poor bastard naked and cut off his... his... _gentleman-sausage_. Said he'd pay extra if I made sure he died knowing he wasn't even a man anymore."

I grimace. "Gross. Did you do it?"

"'Course I didn't fucking _do it_! There's no amount of money that can justify slicing off some cock's cock!" There was a pregnant pause: "...I did stab him in the mouth, though. But that was mostly because he kept screaming and I couldn't get him to shut the fuck up."

I level a look at Ron from under my hood. "Remind me to never get on your bad side, Ron."

"I don't even think that's possible, anymore," Ron replies; there's a pause, and then: "Did she _really_ say she was going to steal your seed?"

"Verbatim."

Ron guffaws before perking up:

"Hey. Isn't that our man?"

I turn to see a blond man with a matching goatee emerging from the terminal. I remember him from Hogwarts. I wonder if he's still as big a prick as he was back then.

"That it is," I reply.

Ron chuckles. "Well, it was nice knowing you, Ernie MacMillan."

MacMillan weaves through the crowd awaiting their loved ones and breaks away from the pack. I turn back to Ron and nod:

"Time to go mobile."

Ron nods and we begin following him at a distance.

* * *

**A/N:** I've been stewing over this idea so long that I just had to release it. It will not take over for TKoL, rest assured. This fic is sort of a deconstruction of fanon ideas and I just _had_ to write a fic that features a slightly deranged Harry/Ron bromance. Chapters will likely be longer than this, but I doubt they'll ever get as long as TKoLs. I'm wagering between 7-10k words every chapter.

Of course, this is just to get a feel for a fic. There's a lot I'm not telling you that's going on in this chapter. Just keep your eyes peeled as the fic goes on.

Chapter Notes:

Hermione's Cooking: I'm pretty sure this is a fanon idea, but I find the idea of Hermione not being able to cook hilarious for some reason. Probably because if she was good at it, she'd be a hop and a skip away from a canon Mary Sue.

Guy Ritchie: The chapter title comes from the opening scene, which resembles a boxing match from Ritchie's 2000 film, _Snatch_. It's expounded upon further by the way Harry introduces characters, in a typically Ritchie-esque style. "It's been emotional" is a line from Ritchie's first film: _Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels_.

The Goblins: I don't know if canon makes out Goblins to be the 'honorable warriors' they are in fanon, but in anything else, goblins aren't honorable, they're assholes. The kind that would lose your money and outsmart you to ensure they wouldn't have to pay you back. Hermione's unwillingness to join Harry and Ron in hating the Goblins showcases both her tolerance and her naïveté.

Dean and Seamus of Harry and Hermione having kids: I think if Harry and Hermione did end up being the canon OTP, their kids would be mega-hipsters. Don't know why.

My lack of imagination once again is showcased in Harry and Ron's combat attire, respectively. Harry's is based on Connor's Assassin Outfit from ACIII and Ron's is based on The Fugitive's Mantle in Dragon Age 2.

The person in Harry's dream is very important. Keep an eye on that.

Next chapter is called "Franz Ferdinand, or: I'm Just a Crosshair".

Cheers,  
Geist.


	2. Franz Ferdinand

**Disclaimer: **Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

**Summary**: Harry and Ron follow Ernie MacMillan. Shit hits the fan.

* * *

**Midnight Blues**

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

2.) Franz Ferdinand  
or,  
Laugh All the Way to Hell

* * *

Tailing someone is usually the worst part of the job, usually because it takes Ron and I places we don't want to go. Once we were hired to follow a Wizengamot member who was vehemently pro-family values to his office so as to protect him from any possible assailants (no one was really happy with him those days), and found him heading into a gay bar. And we had to follow him in.

After that, I finally understood why people avoid these bars. Even most gay blokes say they're a bit too flamboyant for them.

But, that's not my point. My point is: tailing people sucks.

Especially because Ernie MacMillan hasn't done anything but leave the airport, stop at a fish-and-chips pub, and proceed to wolf it down like starving man. Ron sighs and rubs his eyes:

"We may as well order some food, too," he begins, "we'll look like weirdos if we sit here with no food, no drinks, nothing."

"Right," I agree, and we wave over a pretty waitress who takes our orders down and bustles away to the kitchen.

"So," Ron starts, taking a sip of his Coca-Cola, his latest obsession. "You must have some good stories about America. The magical world there is still stuck in the colonial era if your robes are anything to go by."

I shrug. "It's not all that odd. They have an absurd infestation with creatures though. Particularly demons for some reason. And have you heard the news out of Miami lately? Yikes. I reckon I fucked up a few Blood Mages. Never stabbed a guy in the mouth, though."

Ron chuckles.

"But, then again, how _do_ you stab a guy in the mouth? It's an orifice. It can't really be stabbed, can it?" I question quietly.

"Sure it can," Ron responds with a jaunty grin, "The mouth can open and close and inside the mouth is a cavern you can put the knife through." He waves his hands as if they were lips opening and closing.

"But, you can't stab the mouth, it's an open space," I say.

"Well, it's going inside it, hence 'stab him _in_ the mouth'."

I quirk an eyebrow. "But the blade's going through the back of the throat, so you're really stabbing him in the neck."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," Ron laughs.

I take a casual look at our surroundings and find two other people at the opposite end of the pub looking in MacMillan's direction, both covered by drab, hooded robes. "Ron, three o'clock. The two people in the corner have been giving MacMillan the stink-eye."

"Friendlies?"

"Can't tell yet. But I doubt they'd hire up another group without telling us. For now, just assume they're hostiles. And keep acting like everything's normal. If they're Bloodies, they might be able to sense us."

The waitress sets down our food as Ron gives a little cough of acknowledgement, and starts:

"So, Hermione and I were having—"

"—No."

"No?" Ron asks, confused. "No, what?"

"No to whatever you were about to say. I don't need to think of Hermione that way."

Ron shakes his head. "Hermione and I were having _dinner_ a couple nights ago, and she told me she thinks you're planning on proposing to Ginny."

"What?" I ask, slightly shocked. "News to me. Where'd she get the idea?"

"From the engagement ring in your nightstand drawer."

I cough, trying to gather my bearings. Why the fuck was Hermione snooping through my things?

"That's, ah... that wasn't for Ginny."

Ron quirks an eyebrow for a long moment, then his face crumples in understanding. "Oh. You still have that?"

"Hard to get rid of it," I reply. "No jeweler would want a damaged ring."

"You didn't pawn it off because you couldn't get a good price for it?" Ron asks, the smile on his face indicating that he clearly didn't believe me. I sigh:

"No... it has... sentimental value."

"So," Ron begins awkwardly, "How are you?"

I plaster a grin on my face. "I'm still smiling. That should be enough for most."

Ron nods. "You know... I'm here to... talk with and whatever... if you ever need it."

I love how awkward Ron is in situations like these. "When I need someone to talk to about these things, it'll probably be Hermione. Don't get me wrong, I love you, but you're fuck-all useless at these things."

Ron looks visibly relieved. "Merlin, I thought for a second you might take me up on that. You're right: I'm no good at the mushy stuff; I just stab people in the mouth."

"Neck."

"Whatever."

Ron turns to survey the crowd for just a moment while I take a gulp of my tea, just in time to hear his rather loud exclamation of: "Fuck!"

"What?"

"We've been made. MacMillan's bolting."

"Ah, shit," I groan. "Alright, let's go after him."

Ron stops at the table. "Wait... Who's paying?"

"You are," I reply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "You lost him, and you suck at tracking people."

Ron shifts uncomfortably. "But... I... I kinda left my wallet at the flat."

Fucking moron. "How did you expect to pay if we stayed here the whole time?"

"I thought you'd be a good friend and all," was the redhead's response.

"Fine. Go after him, I'll pay. Jackarse."

Ron scampers out. He better not have been lying to me to avoid paying the tab. Pausing over the untouched fish and chips, I plonk the money down on the table and pop a piece of the fried seafood and turn to head out the door, only to find the table that had been seating the two hooded people is now empty.

Fuck.

I burst out the door and look for any sign of which way Ron went. On the face of the shack is a white chalk mark pointing east, a trademark of Ron's when we do these kinds of jobs. I start moving that way and heighten my senses using magic. I turn a corner and find myself facing down a long road of storefronts, and give a look around. I've learned that being able to fight well is not about knowing the longest, most complex spell, but manipulating the basics to the point where they serve as a wrecking crew.

Amid the thunderous din of downtown London and the lapping of the Thames against the land, I realize Hermione was right: we're now in the muggle section of town and I look really out of place. So I have to make it quick: I stretch out the enhanced hearing as far as possible and eventually I can hear voices. Among them is one that sounds rather suspiciously like Ron.

I follow the voices and turn a corner into a dark, murky alley. I am suddenly reminded of the reason as to why I hate London. Grey skies, grey buildings, grey alleys. But at the end is another figure clad in gray with nearly-orange hair spiraling out the top. Cornered at the end of the alleyway is Ernie MacMillan.

I rush up to Ron. "Look lively, the guys we saw in the fish-and-chips shack are on the move too."

"Fuck, we can't do it here."

Ernie looks up, having noticed me for the first time. "H-Harry? Harry Potter? Oh, thank Merlin you're here, you need to sto-"

"Shut the fuck up, fat man," I silence him glibly. "In case you haven't yet noticed, I'm helping him."

I point at Ron and Ron points at himself. We're about to grab the arsehole up when thundering footsteps approach and I look up to see the two hooded fellows we saw in the bar walking our way. Though, if that sway in the hips is anything to judge by, the one on the right is a woman.

"Leave the moron here, we'll take him back," the male says.

I raise an eyebrow. "Nah, it looks like our friend here has royally pissed off some very important people. And these aren't the kind of people that forgive and forget easily, aren't they, Ernie?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" Ernie cries, turning to the hooded people. "Guys, guys, you have to help me!"

"Friend of yours, I take it?" I ask the woman.

She doesn't respond. "That is an Officer of Ministry Law you are manhandling. Let him go or face the _full_ might of the Aurors bearing down on you."

Wait. What? Wasn't this a government contract? I exchange a look with Ron. He shrugs, too. Apparently either communication between departments is shit or these people are lying through their teeth. I think I'm going to bet on the latter:

"We'll take our chances, Miss _Auror_."

She makes a sudden movement. In a flash, all wands are drawn, excluding Ernie's, which is currently in Ron's left hand.

"Last chance, mercenaries," The woman orders. "Clear. The. Fuck. Off."

My response is a hearty: "_Obscuro!_" as smoke piles out of the tip of my wand. Ron, knowing the drill, immediately grabs Ernie by the scruff of the neck and drags him out the other end of the alleyway. Two jets of red light fly by us; Ron sends a return blasting hex that rips off a chunk of a building. We duck into a nearby alley and find an ancient Renault Clio begging to be stolen. I cock back my arm and punch out the window when Ernie, who realizes he's probably about to die, starts screaming an unholy racket:

"They're gonna kill me! They're gonna-oomph!" Ron punches him straight across the mouth:

"Will you _shut the fuck up_!?"

I successfully unlock the door and turn to Ron. "You hotwire this piece of shit, I'll take care of the bastard." Ron nods and hustles into the driver's seat as I proceed to 'unlock' the door behind the said seat and attempt to push MacMillan into it. The blond man blubbers loudly and refuses to go inside. Made worse is the fact that my mobile decides now is the time to start ringing.

So here I am, stealing a car with my best mate, a fat fucking whiny baby, and all this to the tune to "With a Little Help from my Friends".

Yes, I realize the irony of it all.

"Get in the car, you knob!"

"No!" He screams.

_Mo-therfucker_. I kick the back of his knees so he falls to a kneeling position in the door way, and (rather viciously) slam the car door into his head. Ernie cries out in pain and I am able to take advantage of his momentary disorientation to throw him into the back seat:

"That's for calling me the Heir of Slytherin you fucking twat!" I pause take a second to settle myself and answer the phone: "Bon_jour_?"

"Harry!" Hermione's voice returns as I hop around to the passenger-side door. Ron unlocks it. "Where _are_ you two? I've been trying to call Ron's mobile all day!"

"Oh, we're running a few errands. We'll be back in the flat in a couple hours. Nothing to worry about."

"_Help me, goddamnit_!" Pierces my eardrums from the backseat.

"Who was that?" Hermione interrogates, sounding alarmed.

"It was... It was Ron!"

"Yeah, sweet thing it was me!" Ron yells.

I cover the speaker on the phone. "Can you shut him up?"

"I'm _driving_!" Ron yells.

"Alright, _you_ talk to her," I hand the phone to Ron and clamber over the seat, punching MacMillan in the face before sending a stunner at him.

"Yes, yes, Hermione, we're fine. Nothing's going on... how's the case?" We slow at a traffic light and Ron holds out his unoccupied hand for a high-five, which I graciously grant him.

Ron laughs at something Hermione says. "That Susan... you two oughta stop taking cases against each other. I don't think poor Neville could take you hating his girlfriend!" Hermione says something else. "Yes... we'll pick up milk on the way back."

The light turns green.

Later, I find myself wondering if it was the adrenaline from all the shite that just happened, or if Ron was distracted by the phone call, or if Ron's just a shitty driver, but he didn't check both ways before hitting the gas. And as I turn to look out the window, the last thing I see before everything goes black, is the front fender of a Volvo milliseconds away from blindsiding us.

* * *

_"Mmm... Harry, you're soft."_

_"Should I be insulted?"_

_"No, you arse, it's a compliment." She burrows in closer to me, head resting in the crook of my neck. "It's funny how things work out, don't you think? When you were leading the DA, I never thought in a million years _we'd_ be an item."_

_"Well, just goes to show you," I grin. "If you told me then Voldemort was going to steal all my money, I'd... well, I'd probably cry."_

_She giggles. Normally she's such a tough woman. To see that I can bring out this side in her is refreshing, exhilarating._

_"So," I start, lacing my fingers together with hers, feeling the rock settled on her ring finger, "what would you like to do to today, Mrs. Potter?"_

_I get a grin in response. "I'm not Mrs. Potter yet."_

* * *

I come back to the land of the living slowly.

Ouch.

Have you ever had that feeling? Like you've just been hit by a car? I reckon that's what I'm feeling right now. A hazy figure shimmers before me and I catch the slightest glimpse of gold hair. For a moment I think I've died and I'm with _her_, but that dream is irrevocably shattered when something hard and metallic hits me across the cheek:

"Wake the fuck up!"

I groan, still not entirely lucid. "Five more minutes, Han'."

I'm hit with the thing again. "_Now_, princess!"

I blink groggily five or six times before I can see my surroundings clearly. We're in a dirty, unfinished basement somewhere that I can't quite identify. Ron, who also appears to have just woken up, is tied to a chair across from me and gives me a weak smile. When I try to shift in my chair, I realize I, too, am tied to it. Two people in Aurors robes and badges stand guard over us; the blonde one appears to be the senior Auror. It is now that I understand we have well and truly fucked up.

After reviewing everything that happened before the accident, I can't help but shoot a dirty look at Ron: "Nice driving, arsehole."

"I know," he shoots sarcastically, "I was dealing with a blubbering prisoner, talking to a woman about milk and eggs, and driving from crazy Aurors all at the same time. Fuck me, right?" Ron trails off to realize the same horrifying thing that I do.

Oh. Holy. Freaking. Fuck. Hermione was on the _phone_ with us when the accident happened. She's probably called in the entire Auror force to find us. Imagine when she finds out we're being detained by Aurors for attempting to kidnap and murder a person...

Speaking of which, where is that little rat-bastard? I look around the room for him but am slapped with that thing _again_, which turns out to be the butt-end of a handgun:

"Oh, Jesus, Merlin. You have _got_ to stop hitting me in the face; don't you know that just disorients the victim? Makes the brain all... woozy."

The blonde lowers to my level. "Don't care, I just need to make sure you're awake."

She has shoulder-length, honey-blonde curls, a heart-shaped face, and eyes such a deep blue I could swear they're violet.

"You're really pretty, you know that?" I answer, giggling dumbly to piss her off. I grunt as she hits me with the pistol again. This time I feel the coppery taste of blood at the back of my mouth.

"Very flattering, Mister Potter," she growls, "We'll go on a date some other time. All I want to know right now is who hired you to kill Ernie over here?"

Ron pipes up. "And if we don't tell you?"

The blonde doesn't look away from me as she answers. "Well, Mister Weasley, I'll send you to court for attempted murder, and you'll go to Azkaban," she starts, placing a dainty hand on my left thigh, running it up said thigh, and then rather brusquely grabbing my crotch area, grinning at my grunt of pain. "But I'll make _sure_ to enjoy my time with you, first."

The tied-up redhead snorts. "Try it, bitch. See how badly you get fucked for it."

Her grip tightens when Ron says 'bitch'.

"Ron, stop swearing," I order. "There are more productive ways to castrate me for dating your sister."

The blonde ignores my byplay with Ron. "Tell me, Mister Potter, why is that your accomplice here thinks I'll get fucked for turning you in?"

"Wait... you mean you haven't already?" I grin. "I'm sorry, I took you for a complete tart."

Her vice-like grip recedes... only to punch me in that sensitive area. I cough as all the wind leaves my lungs and I wheeze just a tiny bit. Ron cringes at the punch.

"What?" The blonde questions innocently. "You told me to stop hitting you in the face."

"I... like it rough," I manage to get out. "Means you have _spirit_."

"It also means you have it as well," the Auror places her face inches from my mine, her lips tantalizingly close. "You have a spirit I'll enjoy breaking."

I grin and nip at her, causing the blonde to recoil. "By all means, break me."

She punches me in the face.

"Aw, back to the face? And here I thought we were such good pals!" I laugh loudly, injecting just a touch of madness into the chuckle, before spitting out blood.

"Shut the fuck up, will you!?" The other Auror, a black-haired man who had been heretofore quiet, yells.

"Fuck off," Ron defends me, receiving his own punch to the face.

"Hey, can't fucking fight someone unless they're tied down? _Pussy_!" Ron spits, infuriating the Auror.

The black-haired one cocks his arm back punches my best mate again. It's a pitiful punch, not one nearly good enough to shut someone like Ron up. The Auror's just making a fool of himself. Ron grins mockingly, baring bloodied teeth. The blonde woman almost seems to shoot me an apologetic look. "New guy," she explains quietly.

"Ah," I whisper conspiratorially. "Consider making him an old guy."

Ron shouts another obscenity and gets hit again, probably trying to take as many punches as I have.

"What the fuck is going on down here? I don't like screaming!" A new voice enters the fray. "My god..." a black-haired, forty-something man in a suit begins, surveying us both. "What are you doing to these two?"

Blondie straightens up and salutes the man who has just appeared in the room. "Commander, We found these two trying to kidnap Ernie whilst he was returning from undercover with the blood mages."

"Oh, so you two are the ones who caused that accident that I currently have to clean up?" He looks angrily at Blondie, who blushes. "Have you been beating these two?"

Blondie looks abashed.

"Give me your gun," he growls. Blondie complies. "You do not hit prisoners. Especially not heroes, understand?"

"Heroes?" The black-haired man yells, incredulous. "They're mercenaries! _Killers_!"

"See that bull ready to charge?" I question snidely, under my breath. "Don't wear red."

"Did I ask you anything, Kenton?" The Commander ignores me and asks the upstart Auror, deadly calm.

Kenton immediately begins sweating. "Uh, no sir."

"Then kindly shut up." He turns back to Blondie. "Greengrass. Where is MacMillan?"

"In the other room with Barrett," Greengrass (I recognize that name from _someplace_) starts, "Kenton, go fetch him."

"Alright," Kenton replies, looking eager to be out of the room. A moment later, he brings a triumphant Ernie MacMillan into the room where we're tied down. Ernie shoots a mocking grin at me and I sneer back.

The Commander lowers himself to my level. "So, when did it become legal to kill Aurors?"

"Never did," I smile. "But if you've heard what I've heard about him..."

The Commander looks thoughtful as he stands. "Funny, because I _have_ heard what you have." He turns, aims the gun, and an unholy crack deafens the room. In a flash, blood spatters the walls and Ernie is down, eyes wide, glassy and unblinking.

Greengrass looks shocked. Kenton, whom had been standing near Ernie, is now covered in blood and looks absolutely mortified. The door MacMillan had emerged from bangs open, a dark-skinned man holding up his wand at the ready in alarm. I raise an eyebrow, trying to downplay my own surprise. And Ron, God bless him, guffaws like an idiot:

"_You should've seen your face_!" He points at Kenton, laughing loudly and hysterically until another crack fills the room and Ron stops laughing. And stares at his shoulder.

Which is currently bleeding from the bullet The Commander just put in it:

"Shut the fuck up, _all of you,_" He asserts quietly. "This man was a turncoat, MI-7 suspects he had given some sensitive information to Blood Mages. These two were hired to kill him _without_ interference on our part."

Everyone shuts up, as per order, even Ron, who must be in _some_ kind of pain. The Commander turns back to me and inspects my wounds, casting several diagnostic spells: "You look to have took the brunt of the damage from the accident. It seems you've broken your arm, several ribs, and you have a concussion."

I laugh, my ribs protesting with a sharp pain. "That might have been Blondie over there."

"Rest assured, she will be punished for her... enthusiasm," he returns, unsmiling. "In the mean time, get your wounds taken care of, and I want you to report to the Scots Tower in Glasgow in three days. Look for Special Operations-13. You will be working for me."

Ron snorts, but it comes out as a pained wheeze.

"There's no such thing as free labor, friend," I answer. Kenton makes a disbelieving noise and Greengrass merely chuckles.

The Commander peers down his nose at me. "Rest assured, I could make you work for free if I like. The government won't go too far for two former heroes who have turned to marauding and whoring themselves out to the highest bidder."

"Oh, and I suspect you've got such _stringent _morals, haven't you?" I mock. "Your subordinates are only as good as you are, and from what I've seen, they're undisciplined, unruly, and generally unqualified for this business."

"I didn't see you doing any better with MacMillan. And in case you haven't noticed, we got the drop on you, didn't we?" Greengrass interjects, seemingly offended.

The Commander and I speak at the same time:

"Shut up, Blondie."

"Shut up, Auror."

Greengrass palms her face exasperatedly.

"Besides," I say, "You only got us by causing an accident in broad daylight on a relatively busy street in the middle of _muggle_ London. So, yeah, say what you want about Ron and I, we're at least _discreet_."

"Not to mention, you probably caused a traffic jam," Ron supplies glibly, blood still dribbling from his wound.

The Commander pauses, looking between Ron, I, Greengrass, grimly amused. "Well, Auror Greengrass? Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"I—well, I—it was a stupid decision."

"Acknowledged. Don't let it happen again." The Commander returns to us. "As for you two, I won't be forcing you two to work for free. I think we can work on getting at least a portion of your estate restored if you act in defense of the realm."

Hmm... money's always good.

"Also, I think _you_ might have a personal interest in this case."

I fix him my best look of amusement. "And why, pray tell, do you believe I would give a shit about a band of Blood Mages case beyond the money?"

"These Bloodies are the ones that orchestrated the Midnight Bombing in Birmingham a year-and-a-half ago," The Commander says grimly, taking a note of my sharp intake of breath. I barely notice the pain in my ribs. "The Auror Department lost thirty Aurors that night, including one of my best."

I can't speak; I can't breathe, and Ron notices. Warily, he asks the question I dread:

"Was it—?"

"—Hannah Abbott," The Commander turns to me, "Whom had told me, a week prior to her death, that it would soon be Hannah Potter. _That_ is the reason why I believe you would 'give a shit' about some Blood Mages."

I breathe out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding:

"What do you want me to do?"

The Commander shakes his head. "Come to the Scots Tower in two days, and I'll tell you everything."

"Who should I ask for?"

"Shepard. Hannah must have spoken about me at some point."

"Yeah... she told me you were a tight bastard."

"That may be the truth," The Commander says, before turning on his heel. "Two days, Potter."

And then, he's gone.

* * *

Ron and I drag our sorry arses back to the flat some time later, after the Commander left and Greengrass fixed most of the damage she'd dealt. As we open the door, we're hit with the gale force of Hurricane Hermione:

"What the_ bloody hell_ happened to you two!? Do you have _any_ idea how _worried_ I was!?" Her shriek immediately trails off as she takes in our pitiful states. "Oh, Merlin..."

She rushes over to us and begins inspecting our respective wounds, giving Ron a sloppy kiss on the cheek and me a hug that I swear shatters what's left of my ribs. The brunette rushes to the bathroom to get supplies whilst we both settle on the couch. Ron gives me a once-over:

"So... are we going to..."

"_You_ don't have to," I reply numbly, "but I've sat here for too long not knowing what happened that night. I'm going. And whoever set that bomb off is going to die. That's a promise."

Ron nods lazily, drowsily. "Then we do it together."

"Jesus Christ," I chuckle. "Mercenaries-turned-Aurors? What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?"

Ron shrugs as Hermione comes back, fussing over us both. "I dunno, Harry. But if we're gonna go to hell, may as well do it laughing all the way there."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, so I lied, I think chapters of this will hover around 5-7k (except this one, which is slightly shorter), not 7-10k. For you TKoL fans, the next chapter's a doozy and I'm currently 3,500 words in it. I suspect it to be around 13k when all is said and done. As for MB, I think I should have the next chapter done in two weeks. Fingers crossed!

Chapter Notes:

Franz Ferdinand: Archiduke of Austria, whose 1914 assassination sparked World War I. It's also a great band from Glasgow.

Have you seen what's going on in Miami: For you DotU fans, this is a subtle nod to it, considering both Midnight Blues and DotU start around the same time. The characters will never meet, however. It's no crossover.

MacMillan: You might be wondering why Ernie's such a ninny if he's an Auror. There's a reason for that, rest assured. He's smug, faking bastard.

Daphne: Daphne, Daphne, she appears quite a bit in my two Potter fics. She'll be even _more_ important in this one.

Hannah Abbott: Yeah... sorry Harry. She's the one in Harry's dreams.

Harry and Ron work for Commander Shepard. I couldn't resist.

The Commander doesn't give Harry and Ron a job because he's bored. Someone's calling in a favor.

Why does Ron know how to hotwire a car? Go with it, he's a mercenary. He knows all sorts of things that might be weird for a pureblooded wizard to know.

Happy Reviewing,  
Geist.


	3. Lucky, or Hermione Lovegood

**Disclaimer: **Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

**Summary**: Harry and Ron go to the Scots Tower. Luna is bored and wants to watch a movie; Harry takes "Schindler's List" from Ron and Hermione's room. Graveyards are visited with both Ron and Hermione.

* * *

**Midnight Blues**

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

3.) Lucky  
or,  
Hermione Lovegood

* * *

_She sighs next to me. "Sorry, Harry. I'd love to laze about all day but I have work, something you apparently don't understand."_

_"No, apparently not," I muse, smiling softly at her. Our hands brush together, the diamond of her engagement ring lightly scraping against my skin. She extricates herself from our tangle of limbs and emerges from under the covers bare, a nude valkyrie. She saunters away, toward the master bath. __I watch every second of it._

_She's going to be _my_ wife. After Voldemort, Gringotts and the Ministry, after all of that, I'm going to have a wife._

_Lucky. That's what it is._

_I feel my luck a'changing._

* * *

"Hermione, do you know what this is?" I ask, rubbing my thumb and middle finger together. "This is the world's smallest violin, and it's playing just for the goblins."

Hermione huffs and crosses her arms. "Don't insult me, Harry. All I'm saying is, yes, the goblins were beastly to you, but they are not _all bad_!"

"I know that. But you're the only one who's naïve enough to believe they're _all good_."

"Ron?" Hermione calls to her boyfriend sweetly, who looks up from the Daily Prophet with a blank expression. "What do you think about all this?"

Ron looks back and forth between Hermione and I, stuck between choosing his girlfriend and his best mate. A trap if there ever was one; Ron, however, is not an idiot (though he may look it) and chooses correctly:

"Man, I don't even _have_ an opinion."

I love Hermione, I really do, but sometimes she really makes me want to slap her. You see, I've never someone so quintessentially American. Now, wait, let me explain, as Hermione would be incredibly offended at being compared to an American (the government of said country is not exactly her favorite what with those two useless wars).

I've witnessed a lot of typically American traits: morbid obesity, spouting on about the freedom they don't really have, the "Prison Bitch" phenomena, and their innate ability to be loud and crass _everywhere_ they go. Yes, these things are incredibly annoying, but there is one trait they share with Hermione, a trait that I find highly illogical and flat-out stupid: optimism.

Hermione's very annoying habit of always thinking the best in people is one I used to find endearing; now it makes me homicidal.

But that's Hermione for you: she can't be cynical; the universe would likely implode if she ever lost her nurturing spirit. She'll defend the Goblins to the death (even though, just between us, we both know they're twats), because that's what she is: doe-eyed even when watching a backstabbing, an ingenue.

I tell Ron that later in the day, as we are leaving for the Scots Tower. The bastard smirks like he's got some cosmic secret that I can't be let in on:

"Even if I knew what 'ingenue' meant," he says, playing the idiot, "Hermione isn't one. She's not so naïve, and she's not so innocent."

"I'll take your word for it."

I don't take his word for it. Ron could tell me that Hermione delights in molesting animals and I would reply: "Sweet, innocent Hermione? My arse". Honestly, I really don't think there's anything Hermione could do that would make me reevaluate her saintliness. Whatever it is that Ron thinks is so raunchy, back of the shag-van dirty about her will have to wait, however, because we find ourselves at the Scots Tower.

We are rather thoroughly checked by two grim-faced Aurors standing outside an impressive cross-shaped building that looks like the lovechild of a gothic church and a neoclassical mansion. The one checking me reaches into my coat and pulls out a simple, rosewood ring box. He eyes it oddly before returning it to me and continuing his search. He finally steps back just short of giving me a rectal exam:

"Auror-Commander Shepard is waiting for you on the third floor."

Ron and I acknowledge the Auror and head into the tower. The first floor is littered with Aurors in battle robes and dragonhide armor, all bustling about, reading files and decrypting codices and whatnot. I don't bother with them, they're all just noise. Ron and I continue past them, our footwear clacking against the stone floor; we walk until we find a staircase nestled in the corner of the building and start climbing up.

"Not really handicapped accessible, is it?" Ron mutters halfway up.

I stop and turn. "Why would a handicapped person be in the Auror Headquarters?"

"I don't know, to file a case?"

"Aurors handle national security; they're not the _police_. That's what Hit-Wizards do." I swivel back and start climbing the stairs once more.

"But that's the thing," Ron says, dropping a seeming non-sequitur. When I look to him for clarification, he continues: "They're _national security_, and yet..."

"And yet they're hiring two mooks from off the street," I reply, "I have thought of it, yes. And it is a little worrying, but I have a feeling I know who's behind this."

Ron groans. "Bugger if he is."

"I'm not doing it for him," I shrug. Ron goes quiet and takes point on the stairs.

The third floor is closed off by two glass doors; a placard on the center of the right door reads: Special Operations 13.

"Looks like we found the place," Ron remarks unnecessarily. The redhead makes to open the door, but they swing open on their own. Nodding to each other, Ron and I make our way into a cavernous, vault-like office. The floor is lined up like a long corridor, with the cubicles off to the side, placards denoting which Auror the cubicle belonged to; as I peak into them, I notice a plethora of sneakoscopes and other such dark-detecting devices cluttering up their desks.

At the far end of the corridor is several larger cubicles and one office. A flash of gold catches my eye and I find Greengrass off to the side, leaning against her cubicle wall while she talks to a tall black man. She casts an askance glance at Ron and I but I don't give her the pleasure of seeing me react to her. We're here for two reasons, to find out who put the Auror-Commander up to hiring two mercenaries for an Auror problem, and for the job itself.

"Greengrass is giving you the stink-eye," Ron says low.

"I noticed," I whisper back. "She _really_ must not like me. Why, though, is the question. I've never said more than two words to her before Saturday."

"Whatever, fuck her," Ron brushes her off blithely as we walk up to another glass door, a placard on it reading: Auror-Commander Jonathan Shepard. Before Ron or I even knock, we hear a low: "Come in!"

Shrugging at each other, we enter.

Auror-Commander Shepard looks different from when we first saw him. Sporting a buzzed, military-style haircut, a few-days growth of stubble, and piercing blue eyes, Shepard looks, if anything, even more brutal than when we first saw him. The combat robes does nothing but heighten my unease. If he wanted to, he could have the entire Auror Department on our asses, and assuming we could even beat this guy in a duel, we'd have no chance against everyone outside.

"Gentlemen," he greets, which sounds more like a sibilant growl than anything else.

"Auror-Commander," I return. Ron remains silent, glaring at the man.

The Commander, for the most part, seems amused at Ron's antics. "What's wrong with your friend, here?"

"I think he's angry that you shot him. Just a guess."

"Well tell him that any time he's willing to stop being a whingeing bitch, we can start discussing our business."

"Oh, har har," Ron sneers. "Get to your business; I hate Aurors."

"And I hate you, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was absolutely sure that you two would be the best for this job. And you don't exactly deny the Minister of Magic what he wants."

"That basso motherfucker," Ron remarks.

I groan. "How did we know Kingsley would be behind this?"

"Don't know why he wants you with me, don't care. As long as you don't fuck with my Aurors, and they don't fuck with you, we will be _peachy_."

Ron smirks. "Easy enough."

"Oh, wonderful. Now, go out to Auror-Captain Lupin's desk. She and Greengrass can brief you. Now, I have other things to work on. Please leave."

Confused at the abrupt ending to the meeting, Ron and I are steered out of Shepard's office and are greeted by two familiar faces: a bemused Greengrass and a very angry Nymphadora Lupin, blood-red hair and all.

"Uh... hi, Tonks?" I greet, hoping my smile is charming enough to disarm her.

It is not.

"What the _bloody hell_ is this!?" She shouts, placing her fists firmly on her hips.

"Now, I might be wrong, but your body language tells me you're displeased," Ron deadpans.

"Oh, just the tiniest bit!" Tonks steps up to me, slightly shocked that I now stand taller than her. "So _this_ is where you got all the money for Teddy's toys! By killing and stealing, Harry."

I shrug. "We don't kill that often. And when we do, they're usually very bad people. Not so different from you, Tonksie."

Tonks' glare is actually frigid. "Don't compare us, Harry. You're the closest thing Teddy has to a father and that's _only_ reason I'm not going to murder you right here and now. Now, follow me, I'll take you two to your workstations."

Tonks marches away, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Greengrass, who just shakes her head and follows, and both Ron and I, who stare at both women's backsides. Ron notices I'm looking and snickers:

"Pervert."

"Like you weren't doing the same thing?" I snort. "Besides, I was thinking: if I'm the closest thing Teddy has to Daddy, when do I get to shag Mummy?"

Ron stares. "Mate, that's fucked up. Just stop talking."

"Oh, blow it out your arse, you prude." I stop. "Wait... did she say 'workstations'?"

Ron pauses, scrunches his face up in thought, and then looks back at me. "Yeah. Yeah she did."

"_Desk_ jobs? What the fuck did we sign up for? Because it sure as shite wasn't a desk job at the Auror Headquarters!"

A soft cough breaks through our little pow-wow and we turn to see an amused Auror Greengrass and an impatient Tonks. Ron sighs:

"Better bite the bollocks, mate."

Ew. Of all the ways for Ron to mess up a muggle idiom.

"Bullet, Ron, _Bullet_! Not bollocks."

Ron has the decency to blush.

Tonks huffs and crosses her arms. "_Move_ it, Potter!"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, hastening to where the resident metamorphmagus stands. Her hair turns from the angry red to a more demure pale pink as she takes up point while Ron and I follow, with Greengrass taking up the rear. Ron exchanges a nervous glance with me, both of us noting that this formation is the standard procedure for escorting prisoners.

Soon, however, Tonks finds a dual cubicle with two desks inside it. Both desks house a typewriter, sneakoscope, and stack of files each. On the each side of the cubicle is a placard; the one on the left says 'Ronald Weasley' and the one on the right, 'Harry Potter'.

Underneath our names on both placards is written: 'Consultant'.

"Consultant?" I question, resisting the urge to guffaw like an idiot.

Tonks nods. "Those files will bring you up to speed. You will meet the rest of the team in two days time."

"So..." Ron begins, "can we take these files and leave?"

"Yes, _you_ can."

Ron and I grab six or seven files from the stack and make a bum-rush for the corridor leading to the staircase when a hand grabs my crooked elbow. I stop; Ron does, too. Tonks gives me a once-over:

"Ron can go, I'll leave him to Hermione. You, on the other hand, are coming with me to visit your godson."

"Is this visit... for pleasure?" I ask hopefully.

Tonks glowers. "Not. At. All."

"Well, it was worth a shot."

* * *

"So," Tonks looks down at me, arms crossed and in quite a huff. "How long have you and Ron been playing mercenaries?" We are in the house she has bought for herself and Teddy, and I am sitting on the couch, which as may as well be a prison cell with the way Tonks is eyeing me.

I shrug, counting back the years. "About seven years, or so?"

Two hands cover a heart-shaped face as Tonks lets out an exasperated scream. "Seven _bloody years_!? And you have _no_ qualms with what you do!?"

"Yeah," I say seriously, "I find I have to be the sad clown."

Tonks stops abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"You know, putting up a happy front for everyone, but crying on the inside."

"Oh... well, I, uh..." Tonks looks taken aback at my display of candidness. Of course, her being flustered causes me to lose all control and I burst out laughing. Realizing she's been had-on, Tonks punches me in the shoulder:

"Twat!"

"Ow! Well, what did you expect?" I ask, still chuckling as I rub the offended shoulder. "Me to start spilling about how alienated I am and whatnot? Look, I just do the things you can't because I'm not limited by law. I'm just like you Aurors, Tonks; I'm just a more _effective_ you."

Tonks sighs and takes a seat on the couch. "I don't like it, Harry."

"You don't have to, _mum_," I assure her.

Tonks snorts. "Your mum was much better suited to motherhood than I am."

I laugh hollowly. "I doubt we'll ever truly know. But really, don't worry about Ron and me, we know how to be careful and take care of ourselves. And I wouldn't have to if Kingsley would just give me my bloody money! But enough about me; how are you and Teddy doing?"

"Teddy's doing good," Tonks smiles fondly. "Tied for top of his class at Redalia."

Redalia School is one of several preparatory schools that feed into Hogwarts. It's one of the less selective schools on the list, which is an insult to how brilliant Teddy will be when he's older, but it's hard to find a suitable place willing to accept the son of a werewolf and a metamorphmagus.

"Tied? With whom?"

"Some girl that he absolutely despises. Give them a few years and they'll be all over each other; I swear they're like Ron and Hermione reborn."

I make a face. "The world's still recovering from the first." A pause. "So, Teddy's good; what about you?"

"Same as always, Harry. It's going; I'm keeping afloat; so-so; so on."

We both let out a single laugh, finding the idea of loneliness morbidly funny. "So I don't have to worry about a new daddy replacing me?"

"No, no you don't," Tonks sighs. "Remus was it for me. There's no one else quite like him. I don't think there ever will be. No one else can compare. It's hard to explain... but, do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

A flash of blonde hair and green eyes, along with tanned skin and toned legs. There is a painful tightening in my chest:

"Yes. I understand." Tonks just doesn't know _how much_ I understand.

There is another pause: I think of Hannah, and no doubt Tonks is thinking of Remus. "So I guess we're working together, now?"

"I guess," I reply.

"But, why?" Tonks asks. "We have nothing on you, and Kingsley would never _force_ you to help us with a case. So why _are_ you helping out?"

I finger the rosewood box in the pocket of my coat. "Let's just say: we're all looking for that special someone."

* * *

I wrap the tweed coat around me as the rain begins to pour harder, still holding the rosewood box in my left hand, and a bouquet of white roses in my right. All around me there is green, and white marble slabs are embedded in the landscape, water dripping, dripping, down on them.

_Hannah Abbott  
12 March, 1980 - 23 November, 2003_  
_"Blessed are the Peacemakers,  
For they will be called the children of God."_

"Blessed are the peacemakers," I whisper to myself.

"So this is where you've been hiding!" Ron's familiar voice breaks through my quiet-time. I turn to see the redhead in a duffle jacket fleet-footing it toward me.

"Where else would I be?" I ask with a half-smile.

Ron shrugs. "Out with Ginny, still at Tonks, at a bar, with a prostitute?"

I cringe. "Not in front of Hannah, Ron."

"Right," Ron says, looking bashful. "Now's not the time and here's not the place for jokes."

"Thanks." I say; we both stare down the white-washed slab. "Why are you here anyway?"

Ron shrugs. "Tonks told Hermione _exactly _how we've been making money since graduating. Hermione got on her high-whore—"

"—Horse."

"—high _horse_ and started screaming about how she knew what we were doing wasn't ethical but she didn't know we were killing people and stuff. Short out of long, I'm gonna be bunking with you tonight."

"No, _not_ happening."

Ron groans. "Look, we're not going to be _spooning_ or anything, I'll be sleeping at the other end of the bed. The only things that'll be nearby your face are my feet."

I shoot him a sideways glance. "And that makes it better? Sleep on the couch, or apologize to Hermione."

"One: the couch is lumpy and you know it; two: I've already tried apologizing. Fifty-seven times over the course of thirty minutes. That's nearly two apologies per minute. Face it: we're bunking."

"Fine," I growl. Why do I have to suffer because Hermione's pissed at Ron? "Fruitcake."

"I'll take a few insults if I can sleep in an actual bed tonight."

There's a lull in the conversation, and I advantage of the momentary silence to discuss our 'case'.

"Did you read the file?"

Ron nods.

"Think the threat's real?"

Ron shrugs. "Can't say for sure. Anyone else and I'd've laughed this off. But these are Blood Mages we're dealing with, and the world's a very strange place."

I inspect the rosewood box for a long while before speaking again: "But why now, why here? The file said that these were extremists looking for a sort of utopia for all creatures: elves, werewolves, vampires, goblins, humans... why England? Why plan an attack on a country that will never change its views on magical creatures?"

"Bloody hell, that's probably the point!" Ron muses loudly. "England has been seen as a holdout for racism and hatred for magical creatures for years now. Our obsession with blood purity doesn't exactly make all the countries come flocking to our aid. They give us the runaround: sow chaos, destroy a few buildings and whatnot, and they show they're capable of getting things done to whomever's backing them."

I laugh, _destroy a few buildings_? "Yeah, but it's not just any building. It's _the _building."

"So?" Ron questions lightly. "They want to blow the Ministry up. They want to kill our esteemed leaders. We're being paid a tidy sum to make sure they don't. And we'll do it. After all, I _am_ the best and you are... _something_, so we'll figure it out."

"You know what I like most about you, Ron? Your humility."

"Well, you know, I do what I do."

Right. That made sense. I crouch and leave the bouquet of white roses at the base of Hannah's grave and make for the cemetery gates.

"Where are you going?" Ron calls after me.

"To get the car!"

"What? Hermione's car?"

Duh. "Yeah, what other car? Neither of us have enough money to buy one."

"You think she'll let you borrow it?"

"I don't really care at this point."

Ron grumbles. "Trying to get me into deeper shite... are you at least going to tell me where you're going?"

"Shopping."

* * *

I enter the flat much later that night, when it's well past Hermione's bedtime and Ron has probably taken over my bed as well. In my hand is an inflatable air mattress a purchased from a muggle sporting goods store. A well-placed spell later and I'm bringing the inflated mattress to my room, where Ron has sprawled out on my bed and is snoring like a jackhammer, the arsehole. I make a quick trip to the linen closet for a blanket and a pillow but then decide: why can't I sleep on a regular bed; why do I have to sleep on the shitty air mattress while Ron and Hermione have a good night's sleep?

I know I'll never get Ron off my bed, the twat's too heavy, but he's not the cause of all of this to begin with, is he? _Hermione_ is.

So, whilst whistling softly to myself, I enter Ron and Hermione's room and stare at the king-sized bed Hermione is currently curled up in, her back to me and at the edge of the bed. _Perfect_. I cast a quick silencing charm on the door so I don't wake up Ron while doing this, pass the shelf filled with movies, books, and an old camcorder. I nearly trip over a tripod leaning against the shelf, but am able to get by without any issue and smile as I get to work. I set up the mattress on the ground next to Hermione's end of the bed and throw the linens and pillow over it in attempt to make it look somewhat appealing to sleep in. I check if Hermione's awoken, and I'm glad to see she's still asleep.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I zip around the other side of the bed so I'm facing Hermione's backside; I step up on top of the bed, plant one foot firmly on her arse (at which she makes this sleepy, annoyed moaning sound and grumbles something about Ron needing to give her space), and heave a terrific push.

I delight in the sound of the feminine scream as Hermione falls off the king-sized bed and lands with an 'oomph' on the plush air-mattress. I quickly drop down to the bedspread and cover myself up, pretending to sleep.

"Who the—Harry!?" Hermione's outraged shriek fills my ears. "You... _you_!"

She launches herself atop me, trying to push me off the bed.

"Stop it!" I yell, trying hard not to laugh. "I'm trying to sleep here!"

"What the... why are you in my _bed_!?"

"Why is Ron in mine? You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?" I counter; Hermione has the decency to blush a bit, but nevertheless insists on being annoying:

"So? Ron could sleep on the couch if he wanted, if he takes your bed, that's not my problem," she huffs.

"And it's not my problem if you want your bed back, so be a good little girl and take the air-mattress before you hurt yourself."

This, if anything, makes Hermione angrier, so instead of just trying to push me off the bed, she starts hitting me in the shoulder as well. Her punches are pitifully weak (I'd be surprised if Hermione _actually _meant me any serious harm), and I have no trouble pinning her arms to the sides and picking her up. Stepping off the bed, I pull the struggling woman flush against me (effectively ensnaring her about the waist), and walk around the bed:

"Let _go_ of me, you oaf!" She shrieks, _probably_ angry to have been woken up to face this, but nevertheless, I persevere and deposit her on the air mattress once again. Hermione huffs and crosses her arms, eerily reminiscent of a child throwing a temper tantrum.

"Stay," I order, before returning to Ron and Hermione's bed and plopping down in it, trying to get some sleep.

Three minutes later, there's a shifting in the mattress to my side. "Hermione, if you try to push me off again I _will_ make you regret it."

"Relax," she sighs, sounding tired. "You can have that side; I'll take this side. But I'll be hexed if I'm sleeping on that cheap excuse for bedding."

"This is ridiculous, Hermione, why don't you just call Ron over and let me sleep in my own bed?"

Hermione grunts. "I refuse to apologize when he's the one who has done something wrong. Besides, are you afraid of sleeping by me or something? You won't have to worry about me jumping you, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Of course not," I answer. "I would be surprised if you did it, even if you wanted to. Gentle, innocent ickle Hermione: wouldn't hurt a fly, wouldn't unzip one, either."

Hermione does her best to look offended. "I'll have you know that I am _not_ that innocent!"

I make a show of guffawing and she punches me in the arm:

"I'm serious! I'm _not_."

I laugh and turn on my side, away from her: "'Night, Hermione."

"I'm mad at you too for enabling Ron, you know?" She tries unsuccessfully to curb my amusement.

"_Goodnight _Hermione."

She laughs, too, now. "Goodnight, Harry."

* * *

_I speed through the day, half-way unaware of what's going on and only barely listening to the new contract Ron and I are up for. What the fuck do I care; I'm getting married! She calls me twenty-three minutes after one o'clock, apologizing and saying that she'll be coming home late tonight because she can't get out of her regimented Auror shift._

_What we'll do after she gets home, however, is all spontaneous._

* * *

When my eyes blink open, I feel something rubbing against my chest. I ignore it. It's still relatively early in the morning... 7:22 AM... long before Ron will wake up. Hermione might already be up.

There's that rubbing again. I look down and find myself staring at Hermione, fast asleep and clutching at me, burrowing into my chest as if to get warmer. The rubbing feeling was her nose nuzzling against me. I blink several times, wondering why Hermione is in bed with me, before I remember kicking her out of her own bed last night.

Apparently my sudden movement in looking down awakens her, too. She looks up and we lock eyes. She blinks sleepily for a few seconds, and then we both register what has just occurred and spring apart like scalded cats. Hermione scoots back so far (and I see it in slow motion like train-wreck waiting to happen) her bottom dips off the bed and the rest of her follows shortly.

Another feminine scream pierces the air, followed by a short 'oomph' as she hits the air mattress again.

I spring out of bed as the brunette scrambles to her feet, trying to explain. "I, uh, um, well... I-I-I thought you were Ron."

"Let's just... not talk about it."

"Yeah, I'd like that," Hermione returns shortly as we (awkwardly) slide past each other out the doorway, where Hermione goes for a shower and I leave the flat for the muggle newspaper.

I rejoin her in the kitchen twenty minutes later as she puts on the kettle and I try not to be disappointed in the latest Liverpool-United fixture. After she's finished that, Hermione sits across from me and gives me a levels a serious look at me.

"Yes?" I query, looking up from the paper.

"So when are you doing it?"

I try not to look _too_ confused. "When am I doing what?"

"Proposing to Ginny?" She asks as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh. And why would I be proposing to her?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Don't play dumb with me, I saw the ring."

Right. Well, Ron _did _warn me about this. "We'll discuss your lack of regard for privacy later, for now, I think it's best we just leave it at 'that ring isn't for Ginny'."

"What do you mean it isn't—it's an _engagement ring_!"

I nod. "That it is. And it's not for Ginny."

"Are you dating someone else on the side?"

"Are you being purposefully dense right now?"

Hermione sighs, before giving a good-natured (but exasperated) little smile. "And you're being purposefully skittish. Fine, I won't bother you about it for now."

"Thank you."

"So what are you and Ron doing today?"

I shrug. "Well, Tonks told me that we don't have to go back to the Scots Tower until tomorrow, so I guess we'll kick back today. Maybe I'll pay Luna a visit; Ginny says she's been working too hard on _The Quibbler_."

Hermione laughs, a trilling sound. "It's probably just Ginny's editor trying to soften up the next issue of _The Quibbler_ so _The Prophet_ will bring in better figures."

"Yeah, and Ginny would castrate him if he even thought of using her friendship with Luna against _The Quibbler_. Merlin knows she would for less." I reply, Hermione nods, remembering the fiasco between Ginny and her editor, Edmund Marbury.

As you probably already know, Ginny is the literal _definition_ of sexpot, so it makes it hard for a beautiful woman to be taken seriously in a historically male-dominated profession. And it also seemed as though the males in the profession had minds dominated by historical and outdated thoughts and practices. Marbury, the current editor at _The Daily Prophet_, was keen on bedding Ginny like one of those secretary affairs you hear about in trashy romance novels and made several passes at her.

Given that Marbury is literally _twice_ Gin-Gin's age and a right ugly bastard at that, she wasn't having any of it. When Ginny (rightly so, I reckon) told him to sod off, Marbury took it as personal insult and made April through June of 2002 absolute hell for our fiery little redhead. When she finally told someone, Hermione and Tonks were so furious that they stormed off to Marbury's office and threatened all sorts of legal action (as well as hinting that the Auror Corps would be making sure Marbury's life wouldn't be easy).

Marbury, of course, scoffed and came down even harder on Ginny.

So, he got a visit at 2:30 in the morning, in his house, from big brother Ron and dragged-along Harry. Needless to say, he never dared bothering Gin again.

Hermione stands up. "Would you like some eggs, Harry?"

"Oh, _no_!" I shout way louder than necessary; Hermione looks somewhat shocked at my outburst. "I—I'll make breakfast." I finish in a quieter tone.

Hermione's eyes narrow. "And why would you want to make breakfast when I offered?"

"I feel bad about kicking you out of your bed last night," I lie, because _God_ I can't take anymore of Hermione's cooking. "So let me make breakfast... you know, to make up for it."

Hermione's eyes remain narrowed, but she relents: "Nice excuse. Is my cooking really _that bad_?"

I wince. "It's... not the greatest."

"Well, you deserve credit for being _gentle_ about it, at least."

"Mmhmm, the picture of tenderness, I am!"

Ron walks out from the hallway and into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes blearily. "By whatever deity, tell me you're cooking, Harry."

* * *

"Wotcher, Luna," I greet, knocking on the open door to her office.

The blonde looks up, her permanently surprised expression matching with her mood for once. "Oh, hullo Harry. Ginny told me you might stop by today. I didn't believe her, though."

"Why not?"

"She was surrounded by Cracksnaps; those affected by them have the propensity to lie," Luna states, completely serious. "Have you two been fighting lately? Cracksnaps only affect unhappy lovers."

"We haven't been fighting," I shake my head as I walk into Luna's office and take a seat on the vinyl couch in one corner of the room.

Luna nods sagely. "Ah. I understand. Not big enough for her, then?"

"No," I growl. "It's just missing something. We're not fighting, and I'm plenty big."

"Hmm... I'll bet," Luna muses academically, and I flash her a disgusted look. "She must be very fussy, then."

I groan. "Can we leave the Ginny topic alone? I came here to see you. Do you want to get lunch?"

Luna's eyes widen. "Are you asking me on a date, Harry Potter?"

"All friendly, I assure you."

Luna gives me a Mona Lisa smile and shuts her notebook. "Certainly Harry. I'd like a few minutes to prepare before we go, however."

"I can do that," I reply as Luna stands, straightening out her clothes, and I have to bite back a laugh at her.

Even at 23, Luna's style still verges on eyesore, combining the strangest fashions from both the muggle and wizarding world. She wears a colorful crimson business suit with purple pinstripes, red stockings and shoes that look far too uncomfortable to wear. Placed on her neck is Luna's trademark butterbeer cork necklace, and on her arms are all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks that I can't even begin to describe.

But the best part of it all is her jacket.

A gaudy rainbow of colors, Hermione has taken to calling it the 'technicolor dreamcoat', and it's rare to see Luna out in public without it. What's even better, that this clash of colors and fabrics just _work_ on Luna; she's constantly on _Witch Weekly's '_Best Dressed' List, to Ron's eternal amusement ("If there was ever proof that women are completely mental, that's it!"). The magazine, however, has printed an asterisk next to Luna's name, often stating that what works on the dreamy blonde won't work on their readers.

But I have to agree with them, somehow Luna evolved from a diminutive, batty Ravenclaw to a genuinely beautiful woman. Being a the editor of a successful newspaper, having a close group of friends, and being widely admired in magical Britain has done wonders for Luna's self esteem. But, at the same time, they have deepened her eccentricities and scared off some potential friends, but I still find Luna's refined lunacy refreshing.

Luna throws on the technicolor dreamcoat and windmills several times, grabbing my hand in the process and running full sprint through _The Quibbler_ newsroom. The reporters do not even regard the blonde sprinting at full speed dragging Harry Potter along behind her with surprise. One journalist, a political journalist named Steve Cindabair, merely smirks in our direction:

"Morning, boss," he says, sipping from his tea, "Hullo, Mr. Potter."

I hurriedly tip an imaginary hat to him. "Wotcher, Cindabair."

Luna doesn't wait for an answer, dragging me through the glass front doors and out into muggle London, where she windmills once more and grabs my other hand before settling into an impromptu tango only she can hear.

We both laugh as we dance in front of a muggle crowd who just stare at us as if we're the stangest people in the world. Two or three of them throw a couple of pound notes at us (no doubt thinking we're entertainers), and Luna picks them up once she's decided we're done embarrassing ourselves.

"Look," she says, collecting about 20 quid from the ground, "now we can eat a muggle restaurant, too."

I level an amused look at her. "You know I have pound notes, right?"

"Mmhmm, but I like to pay for myself," she says playfully, looping her right arm through my left and proceeds to practically skip down the street.

Luna's one of those people who never has a plan when she starts a day, making it up as she goes along. It's one of the best and most annoying qualities about her, because her laissez-faire approach to everything has left her incredibly changeable. In the past five minutes, she has decided on a Chinese Restaurant, Indian, Japanese, Italian, and a German pub she went to a year ago.

I stop her before the blonde can choose another place and half-an-hour later, I'm swigging German Ale and eating schnitzel with her. She goes for the more trendy and daring foods like blood sausages, but after seeing the nearly blackened meat, I find myself quite happy with my choice.

"What are you doing tonight, Luna?" I ask casually.

Just as casually, she responds: "Hoping you'll be asking Ginny on a date instead of me."

"Should I?"

Luna gives me a deadpan look. "She is in France covering the Marseille-Lyon fixture, Harry."

I try to look abashed, but I'm afraid my apologetic shrug looks more nonchalant than humble. "Right. I should have known that."

"Yes. You should have," Luna delicately dabs at her mouth with a napkin, "but since Ginny _is_ out of the country, and I am typically unattached, I am free for tonight."

"Great," I grin, "what would you like to do?"

"I would like to watch one of those muggle films you and Ron love so much," she states seriously, "or perhaps, something you and Hermione would watch. The things you and Ron prefer simply have far too many explosions for my liking."

"Well, Ron is a simple fellow."

Luna nods sagely. "What a terribly complex life he lives for such a simple man."

"I'll drink to that," I say, tipping my water as I would a glass of champagne.

"You do not have alcohol, Harry."

I snort at Luna's nonchalant observation. Sometimes I'm torn between whether I'm so deeply in love with Luna or have been driven so insane that she seems like the most sensible person in the world.

* * *

Later that day, I find myself in Ron and Hermione's room trying to pick out a movie from the shelf. Ron walks in with a bored look:

"Hey mate," he says.

"Wotcher."

"What're you up to?"

I shrug. "Looking for a film to watch with Luna later tonight."

"What are you thinking?"

"She wanted me to take a movie that I would watch with Hermione," I say, pausing to stroke my chin thoughtfully. "So... likely something sensible, with a strong moral message."

"Okay," Ron replies, sitting on the bed and looking like a sadsack.

I groan. "What is it? You're giving me that 'you kicked my puppy' look."

"Hermione's being _really_ frosty."

"That's the earth-shattering matter you came here for? Go apologize," I reply, "and have a make-up shag or something—oh, _God, horrible_ mental image—just stop pestering me with it."

"But... why is she so _mad_? She knew we our jobs weren't exactly _legal_."

I laugh, incredulous. "Ron, do you think that's the _point_? It's not about laws, or anything... Hermione believes in an absolute moral order of things; killing things for money is not only reprehensible but a two-finger salute to everything we fought for in the war to her. Frankly, you should count your blessings and be glad she hasn't thrown us out on our arses."

"Really," Ron begins, equally incredulous. "You mean to tell me that Hermione's in a snit over a philosophical principle?"

"If you didn't know that, I'm not entirely sure how right you two are for each other."

Ron gives me a challenging glare. "You don't think we are?"

I notice Hermione coming down the hallway toward the bedroom and change the topic slightly.

"Mate," I give Ron my best charming smile. "I don't think you're good for anyone. Anyone but me, that is. Forget Hermione, I'm your partner. Your _life_ partner. We could make each other _so_ happy."

"I'm going to pretend I never heard that," Hermione says, walking into the bedroom, apparently not having heard the conversation Ron and I had just been having as she moves to her closet.

Ron snorts. "Yeah right, Hermione. You'd love it."

Hermione glares.

Wow. She really _is_ being frosty.

I decide it's best I don't get involved. "Hermione, what's your favorite film?"

Hermione looks up at me, surprised by my non-sequitur. "Erm... _Schindler's List_, why?

"Thanks," I smile sweetly, leaving the room before these two explode at one another.

And given the slam of their bedroom door and muffled shouts behind it, I think it's safe to say I assessed the situation correctly.

* * *

Well, Ron buggered it up proper this time; I don't think I've ever seen Hermione so angry as when she stormed out the flat (nearly frothing at the mouth) an hour ago. Ron also looked relatively brassed and left a few minutes later. Being the best friend of both parties, I suppose it would be smart to talk Hermione down or commiserate with Ron, but I decide against it.

Why?

Because this is one of those things I refuse to get involved in. If Hermione can't see past the inherent amorality of our line of work and remains blind to the fact that Ron does a lot of good despite his 'lawless' profession, she doesn't deserve him. And if Ron can't see why Hermione hates the idea of him being a sellwand ' to whomever pays the most, then he doesn't deserve her.

Besides, Luna's coming over, and she'll no doubt be much more pleasant company than Ron or Hermione at the moment.

It turns out _Schindler's List_ was on Ron and Hermione's bedroom shelf of movies; it's VHS but I doubt Luna will care much. Thirty minutes to eight, the blonde shows up at the doorstep in another strange get-up that I couldn't even begin to describe. It's colorful clash of fabrics that would, as per usual, look absolutely horrid on anyone else. She crosses the threshold and shrugs off her technicolor dreamcoat with a far-off smile:

"I suppose Ron and Hermione are fighting again, aren't they? There are far too many Cracksnaps in here."

I shrug. "Yeah... yeah, they're idiots."

"They must love each other very much," Luna observes as she walks into the kitchen and casually raids the icebox, ignoring the takeaway I bought, "to remain together for so long even though they get on each other's nerves that much."

"I know I'll never understand those two, so I don't bother."

Luna just flutters about the kitchen, having recovered a tub of ice cream from the icebox, and sets out two bowls for both of us. With a faraway smile on her face, she begins scooping out the ice cream and depositing it into either plate, handing one to me once she finishes.

"Ice cream before dinner?" I ask.

"Good for the soul," is her cryptic response. "What's the film?"

"Something about the muggle second World War," I shrug, reading the back of the box. "Apparently it's Hermione's favorite."

"Well, I suppose it can't have all that many explosions in it if Hermione likes it. Let's watch it," Luna says, continuing to scoop out an outrageous amount of ice cream into both our bowls.

I nod and usher Luna to the sitting room, where she begins to eat huge spoonfuls of her ice cream. When I open the box, I notice the videotape is curiously unmarked and I curse myself for not checking the box earlier; it might not even be the right movie. But, well, there's only one way to find out.

Placing the videotape inside the player, I sit back with Luna and watch as the opening scene to the movie plays, only to suddenly be cut off by an awkward shot of Ron and Hermione's room. Luna and I exchange confused glances as the door to the videotaped version of Ron and Hermione's room opens, revealing a serenely smiling Hermione and a nervous Ron:

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Video-Ron asks. "I mean, it's not exactly normal."

Video-Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Why? It's not like anyone else will be watching it, just you and I."

Luna's eyes widen comically as we both realize what's about to happen.

"Well..." Ron trails off. "Alright, alright. Just this once."

And then they kiss. Which is disgusting enough as it is, made even worse when the two start scrabbling at each other's clothes. Luna watches the whole trainwreck with great gusto while I try to turn the horrible thing off and get those images out of my head. However, when I try to get up, Luna drags me back down and says she wants to see this.

She's curiously strong for such a slight woman.

"Oh my, and here I thought Hermione would be a sensible, utilitarian lover... is that angle even _possible_?" She says through a mouthful of ice cream while I shut my eyes and contemplate a way to cast a silencing charm on the telly without breaking it or killing myself without getting blood on the carpet:

"I'm not listening; I'm not listening!" I yell; Luna laughs, a soft trilling laugh that is nearly lost in the horrifying cacophony that are Hermione's moans and Ron's grunts:

"Come on, Harry," she snickers. "You must have expected these two to do these things. I mean, think of how Ron must feel knowing you and his sister are—"

"—Not helping, Luna," I growl.

"Just open your eyes; you'll live, I swear."

I do open my eyes. But nothing can truly prepare you for a situation like this. As I find myself subjected to the highly personal and deeply scarring recording of my two best friends shagging on what was apparently supposed to be a videotape of a _holocaust_ film, I am forced to admit two things. One: I will never, _ever_ be clean again. Two: Hermione has a _really_ nice arse.

Luna, for her part, agrees when I tell her:

"I'd kill for a bum like hers," she says, slurping up the last of her ice cream. "I wonder why she always wears such unflattering clothes when she clearly has the assets."

I give her a sickly smile. "Never change, Luna."

* * *

_The call comes at two-twenty in the morning from Susan Bones, long after I've gone to sleep. There was a midnight bombing on Birmingham's Pinafore Place, a luxury shopping district for magicals. Thirty Aurors dead, including _her_._

_My heart stops and sinks._

_When I get to the hospital, the only thing I find that they've recovered is the ring that was on her finger._

_I feel my luck a'changing._

* * *

I thrust the videotape box at Ron at breakfast the next morning, trying very hard not to look too disturbed by the contents of said box:

"Mate," I begin, "whatever I've said about Hermione being naïve and you being a prude, I take it all back."

Ron suddenly seems to realize what's actually in 'Schindler's List' and gives me a look comparable to a deer's in the headlights. Hermione looks at the box, and then at me, and then her hands move up to her mouth in complete horror.

"Oh, Merlin," she says, her voice tinny behind her hands.

"Well, look on the bright side, Herms," I joke weakly, "Luna thinks you have a nice arse. I concur."

Hermione turns beet red and I head toward the door, fingering the rosewood ring box in the pocket of my tweed coat.

"Where are you going?" Ron asks, once he regains his voice.

I shrug nonchalantly. "A quiet place to AK myself."

* * *

"So this is where you're always going," Hermione's voice disturbs the facade of peace I've built up around myself whilst standing in front of Hannah's grave. I turn and give Hermione a quizzical look. "Ron told me you'd be here. Wouldn't say why, though."

It is raining again.

"Loyal man," I grunt, grateful for Ron's discretion, even if it was utterly unnecessary.

"Yeah," she begins. "If only he wasn't so quick to anger."

"Fighting again?" I ask, turning the rosewood box over and over in my jacket pocket.

Hermione cringes, bringing a hand up to her forehead. "About the... about the _video_."

"Seriously, Hermione... what were you two thinking? Filming that and then recording it over Schindler's List? That almost seems insulting to holocaust victims." I ask, being unserious, but Hermione gives me a serious look:

"That's what the fight was about. Yes, Ron was careless with where he put the tape but I was stupid for wanting to do it in the first place! But I didn't say that in the flat. I just yelled at him."

I blink. "And this differs from regular Hermione-Ron interactions, how?"

Hermione ignores me. "I don't know what to do, Harry; every time I see Ron I want slap him or beat some sense into his thick skull. Tell him what he's doing is unethical and _dangerous_. But what's strange is that I don't want to do the same thing to you."

I shrug, smiling. "He's your boyfriend. You obviously care about him more than you do me."

"I do _not,_" is Hermione's scandalized reproach.

"Ah... I reckon that was a bad way of saying it," I correct myself, scratching my forehead. "You see more fit to tell him your opinions of things than you do me because he plays a larger role in your life."

"No, he _doesn't_."

"Really? Have I ever bent you over a dresser and hammered you like, and I quote, 'a spike nail'?" I deadpan, recalling some of Hermione's entirely unerotic pillow talk. Said woman blushes:

"Okay. Maybe a _little_ more important. But that's not it. It's not just because we're platonic and he and I are romantic."

"Then what is it?"

"I... I..." Hermione trails off, looking uncertain.

I turn away from Hannah's grave to face Hermione. "Straight answer, Hermione: Do you love him?"

"What?"

"Exactly what I said."

Hermione looks incredulous. "Of course I _love_ him, why would I have stayed if I didn't!?"

"Anyone can stick around for a couple of years in an on-off relationship. Do you _love_ him? Do you love Ron enough to spend the rest of your life with him? And does Ron love you enough to spend the rest of _his_ life with you?"

The silence that ensues speaks volumes.

And when Hermione speaks again, she's changed the subject. "Do you come here often?"

"Usually once a week, sometimes two or even three times a week."

Hermione nods. "Hannah Abbott. I remember her. She died in the bombings a year and a half ago, right?" I nod. "What's with the hole in it?" Hermione indicates the tiny foxhole I've dug into the ground in front of Hannah's gravestone.

"I have something to give her."

"Why her grave? Were you friends with her?"

Another nod. I steel myself, knowing this moment has been a long time coming. I have pictured it in many ways, sometimes somber, sometimes joyous, but always alone. It's strange to go through with this having Hermione at my side, completely unaware of this entire relationship I had with another person. But that's what life is: secrets held together by a stroke of luck, and as changeable as the wind or the flip of a coin.

So I pull out the rosewood box, noting Hermione's eyes widen as I do so, check the damaged ring inside, and place the box in the foxhole. Hermione watches in silence as I cover the box with dirt and grass.

When I stand again, a little shaky on my feet, I repeat Hermione's question: "Were we friends?"

She looks shell-shocked.

_"Do you know why we make a good couple? It's because we're friends. I think a lot of couples forget they were once friends."_

"Yeah," I find myself saying more to myself than to Hermione. "You could say we were."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm really quite shit at estimating chapter lengths, aren't I? I won't make a guess at how long the next one will be. :P

Next chapter we'll see more of Daphne and Tonks. The slightly modified Weasley family will come into play, and the Blood Mages, which I only briefly alluded to in this chapter, will start to take center-stage in the next 2-3 chapters.

Thank you all for the reviews and being patient with my updating times. I came into this fic expecting boos all-around (as it was originally an exercise to see if I could write a black comedy, which I haven't been too successful with in the past), but with the reviews and the favs and follows, I'm feeling good about this fic. Thank you all, and keep 'em coming!

Chapter Notes:

The Title: The title of this chapter has changed many times over the course of writing it. At the beginning it was Bad Dreams (The Hannah portions), then Ingenue (after what Harry calls Hermione), then The Valkyries (As it seems female characters take a precedence to the Harry-Ron dynamic in this chapter), then videotape (speaks for itself), and finally I settled on Lucky. Hermione Lovegood references the 'videotape' as well as Luna's prominence in this chapter.

Pairing: I've had several PMs asking me about pairings for this fic, and I know I'll get more after this chapter, so I'm going to head this off before it starts: right now, I'm not sure what the pairing will be or if there _will_ be one. It could be a Harry/Daphne, it could be (and rather believably, too) Harry/Luna, or Harry/Tonks. Hell, I could go nuts and make this an HHr, or go completely balls to the wall and make it Harry/Ron (just kidding. That would be _waay_ too awkward for me to write, not that there's anything wrong with that).

Ingenue: This chapter has been, in many ways, a Harry/Hermione-centric one centered around her loss of innocence (or, more accurately, the loss of Harry's perception of her being innocent), as opposed to the two Harry/Ron-centric chapters prior. Luna steals a sizable chunk of the show because I love Luna's character and she didn't get enough love in TKoL. Srsly.

Blood Mages: I'm being purposefully vague. You'll learn more about them over the coming chapters, this is more of a reflective chapter in which the briefing for the mission would seem... out of place.

Ron and Hermione: They're gonna clash with each other even more than they do in my other Potter fic, mainly because I think a relationship like Romione needs a lot of effort from both parties to make it work. Whether they stand the test of faith or crumble in the wind remains to be seen.

The Videotape: Seems tasteless, I know, but the entire point of the chapter was to disprove Harry's claim at the beginning that Hermione's an 'ingenue'. Short of cold-blooded murder, this was the easiest and most fitting way for Harry to reevaluate his thoughts. And it will come back again, rest assured.

End notes.

'Til next time,  
Geist.

P.S. There are several Tarantino references in the first scene.


	4. Good News for People Who Love Bad News

**Disclaimer: **Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

**Summary**: Hermione is shocked; Harry and Ron get a new job from "Boris"; Harry and Ron see a familiar face; Harry grosses Ron out; cryptic messages.

* * *

**Midnight Blues**

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

4.) Good News for People Who Love Bad News  
or,  
I Don't Know What the Term "Good News" Means

* * *

"Harry, stop walking away from me!" Hermione shrieks; I stop my quick trot through the flooded cemetery and turn back to Hermione. Her hood has fallen in attempt to chase me and now her hair is sopping, plastered to her forehead as she takes deep, steadying breaths.

"You were... you were..."

I nod. "Yes, I was."

Hermione recoils, as though I've physically struck her. "And you didn't think I was worth telling?"

"It's not like that, Herms," I reply, running a hand through my own wet hair. "Hannah was on a really important case and we couldn't come out and announce we were dating, let alone getting married."

"...Did Ron know?"

There it is. I knew she'd ask that. And I know she won't like the answer.

Swallowing, I nod slowly, and Hermione's face seems to crumple. Now, I know I've never been the most open person in the world, but it was never my intention to deliberately lie to Hermione. Now she probably thinks I don't trust her and that makes me feel like a shitehead.

"Why not me? Aren't I your friend, too?"

"Of course you are!" I find myself nearly shouting, which causes Hermione to jump. "But it's just that—" I continue more tenderly, "—it's just that sometimes these things get so far out of hand and it becomes harder and harder to talk about that it becomes easier just to never mention it."

"But you should have told me! I could have helped after... after..." Hermione starts shouting but trails off by the end, pointing at the gravestone. It's kind of funny when I think about it; from the moment we became friends, there Hermione was, from things as trivial as saving Ron and I food when we came to the Great Hall late or helping us with notes, to saving our lives several times over. She's always cared for Ron and I more than she should. It makes it worse that I've always been an ungrateful bastard about for it.

"I know you could have," I try to placate her. "It's just that, sometimes people don't want to be helped."

"…What?" She sniffles. I step closer and put a comforting arm on her shoulder, at which point she moves to embrace me; I reciprocate the action.

"People like me; we like being miserable," I jest with humorless smile into her hair, the scent of lilacs and morning rain invading my senses. "It gives us something to be angry at the world about. To feel justified in our hate."

Hermione laughs, one of her little, sarcastic laughs. "So you're like one of those people who waits on hand and foot for bad news, huh?"

"Yeah, I just _love_ bad news," I smile down at her. "But you know I've never been open, and Ron only knows because he walked in on us. If it had been up to me, you'd both be in the dark right now."

Hermione gives me a dour look, pulling away from me. "Not helping your case."

"Of course it isn't. I want you to be mad at me. I like bad news, remember?"

"Well, good news, then," she huffily retorts. We both look at each other and chuckle slightly as sounds of thunder crack above us.

We won't be okay now, and probably not for sometime yet, but Hermione won't show it. That's just not the person she is. She still feels betrayed, I know, but she'll act as she always has. Like I said: a nurturer. And in some ways, still the sprite of a girl I met at eleven. I know Hermione and I will be okay someday soon. We'll forgive and forget. That's why I love her.

That's why I love all my friends, I suppose. They're the only ones who'd put up with me.

* * *

When we return to the flat, Ron is waiting with a worried look on his face. Hermione immediately asks what's wrong, but Ron ignores her and turns straight to me:

"Boris rang," he states simply.

"Boris," I sigh. "Why always Boris?"

"Who's Boris?" Hermione queries, confused.

"He's got a job for us," Ron replies, ignoring the woman. "Not exactly clean, though."

We both give Hermione looks that tell her to leave the room. Being that she is Hermione, she stamps her feet (surprisingly cute from a twenty-five year-old), folds her arms, and stomps into the kitchen. Ron raises his wand and casts a _Muffliato_ just to be sure.

"So what does Boris want?"

"What _doesn't_ that wanker want?" Ron retorts; we both laugh. "We're supposed to meet him at the Lodge in Croydon tomorrow morning."

"The Lodge? In Croydon? We're going to be in Glasgow the whole day!"

Ron runs a hand through his unruly mop of ginger hair. "I tried to get him to move the meeting closer to Birmingham, but you know how these Soviet types are... he says he can only do it somewhere close to Greater London and Croydon has the nearest Lodge. So we'll have to get to the Lodge before work. Hah. _Work_."

"Yeah, _work_. We're actually respectable now, Ron."

Ron looks sour. "But yeah, we've still got to get up early tomorrow."

"Great. We're working for High Inquisitor Pillock Shepard, Boris is nipping at our heels, and we have to go and hunt down Bloodies," I grouse. "This week gets better and better."

"Well you're not going to like what he wants us to do, then."

I stare. "Do I even want to know?"

"No. Well, yes... but, no."

"Pleasantly unhelpful," I drawl. "Lay it on me; I love bad news."

"You remember those hitmen we killed a couple months back. You know, the poufs?"

About six months ago, under Boris's directive, Ron and I killed a very dangerous and very elusive pair of German assassins whom had been charged with killing a rather influential judge in France. Apparently, their Aurors couldn't get to the killers, but apparently, we could. The only thing we knew about them post-briefing was that these two guys were totally shagging each other in their spare time.

In essence, we were hunting down gay, German versions of ourselves.

We tracked them from the scene of the crime in downtown Paris and found they had stolen a beat-up '98 Renault Espace and made their escape to Marseilles muggle style (eluding French Hit-Wizards all the way), there the stolen car was found by muggle authorities.

From there, we figured the pouf hitmen were bunking in a nearby hotel. We went from hotel to hotel confunding receptionists into telling us whether these two German guys had checked in. When we found them, Ron and I barged in, wands ablaze, only to find these two... _rough-housing _(for lack of a classier term) as we came careening in. Too surprised to react, Ron and I had downed them both with a killing curse before the one behind could pull out.

"Yeah, I remember them," I reply, shuddering.

"Well, apparently nobody knows they're dead because Boris has been managing their commissions," Ron starts, "so they've been invited to a dinner party."

"A dinner party?"

The redhead nods. "Paying respect to the man himself: Hozhen."

"That Chinese Dark Lord-hopeful?"

"Right in one," Ron smirks. "You might be wondering where we come in. The poufs never made physical contact with anyone they were working for, so nobody knows what they look like. _We're_ supposed to go disguised as the poufs, and steal an item from the chinaman."

"An item?"

Ron smirks. "Apparently, he's been holding this ancient weapon from the Roman period. Anyone who wears it becomes irresistible."

"Irresistible? How so?"

"Dunno, Hermione told me something about pher-o-mones being released. Anything the wearer orders is followed; this weapon was made holy by killing some important guy, I didn't really listen to the story. But the power of the weapon was curse-locked by old man Slytherin himself back in the dark ages, and if old Hozhen discovers how to break Slytherin's curse..."

"...He becomes a _real_ Dark Lord, minions and all," I finish for Ron.

"So we steal it from him, hand it over to Boris, who'll sell it to the Department of Mysteries and give us a forty percent cut. Not bad, eh?

Now that was what I least expected when I said bad news. "You're having me on."

Ron's expression is sharp and serious. "If I was, I'd be laughing."

"You mean to tell me that we're to go to a party filled to the brim with killers and dark wizards from all over the Eurasia and break into the host's vault under everyone's notice?"

Ron nods happily, vaguely reminiscent of a stupid dog beaten one too many times by its master to understand the merits of self-preservation.

"Are you being daft? I'd say our chances of pulling that off are three-eighths to sod all," I predict. "I don't care what Boris wants, this job seems dodgy. The answer's no, Ron."

* * *

"How, again, did you rope me into this?" I ask as we find ourselves just outside of Croydon, nearby a small brick building.

"Carefully," is Ron's blasé response.

To say The Lodge looks dodgy would be the understatement of the century. It wouldn't look entirely out of place in a Ukrainian ghetto; The Lodge, on the outside at least, is a smoked-out shell of an old building that not even the most desperate of squatters or skag addicts would consider stepping in.

The building is surrounded by a tall fence, signs posted on every side denoting the condemned building was an electrical hazard.

Of course, that and several notice-me-not wards are applied to keep the muggles (and a select many wizards and witches) away from the building, which changes soon enough as Ron knocks on a rusty old door. A slot slides open, revealing a hawkish set of golden-brown eyes:

"Password?" It asks, a Slavic accent corrupted by decades of living in England.

Ron smiles charmingly. "Death is whimsical today."

Those hawkish eyes blink and the slot slides shut. Moments later, a large creaking noise is heard and the door swings open, revealing a middle-aged man with far too many tattoos: on his neck, his arms, and I know more are underneath the expensive suit he wears.

"Milan!" Ron exclaims, embracing the man.

"Ronald Weasley," replies Milan, smiling as well. "I see you have brought Harry along. Come then, Boris is in sauna."

We step across the threshold of the building, exiting the dreary London air and enter the most magnificent little lodge I've seen. Let it never be said criminals don't have taste, because criminals built this place and taste is _exactly _what it exudes.

High vaulted ceilings, thick mahogany wood on the walls, dark marble flooring... even the fucking the lights are set bright enough to see but dimly enough to blanket the entrance hall in dark sensuality.

Magic is a hell of a thing, isn't it?

"Sauna, you say?" I question Milan, whom nods:

"You would do well to join him. Come, I will lead you to dressing room."

Milan leads us down tastefully decorated rooms, past a smoking lounge where several old men sit puffing on pipes; I snag several cigars for later when Hermione isn't around the flat, and soon we find ourselves outside a simple wooden door.

"Go in, change, and go to door on other side of room. Boris will be in there."

Ron and I take lockers on the opposite sides of the dressing room, so that there's no chance either of us sees the other's bits; I grab a towel, strip down, wrap the towel around my waist and enter the sauna, where a man whom looks surprisingly young despite his silver hair and goatee awaits me:

"Harry!" He greets in a similar accent to Milan's. "I have not seen you since our last dinner party. We should do it again; you are a very good chef."

I smile lightly at the praise. "I make do."

"Make do?" He questions incredulously as Ron enters the sauna, wrapped in his own towel. "Ron, Harry here says he 'makes do' with cooking. Makes do!"

Ron quirks an eyebrow. "He does, actually. I haven't seen him make anything like that since the dinner party."

Well, yeah, of course he doesn't. Why would I spend that much time on food for Ron and Hermione? All they do is bicker through dinner anyway. Besides, the dinner party was ridiculous enough; I was up most of the night before the dinner prepping the food at Boris' palatial manor in Canterbury. That and the notion of all the country's scum: hitmen, drug lords, bounty hunters and their handlers getting together for supper, is laughable.

"No spark," I say instead. "I haven't any new recipes."

Boris smiles mildly, nodding. "Do tell me when you do; I would be very interested in hosting another party. You were a hit at the last."

"Yes, food is fantastic and all," Ron replies. "But where exactly are we going and what exactly are we doing for you?"

Boris, never one to mince his words during business, leaned forward, a bead of sweat dripping from his Roman nose. "You are going to steal the Lance of Longinus from Hozhen's armory."

I squint. "The Holy Lance? The one that stabbed _Jesus_? But isn't it in Vienna?"

"That is a fake, cast nearly a thousand years ago from portions of the real lance, which was hidden within the Byzantine Empire for some time after Slytherin cursed it, then it was held by the Ottomans, then it made its way to Italy when a Florentine nobleman stole it from the Ottomans. Afterward, it was given to the Vatican, whereupon it was stolen two months ago by an agent close to Hozhen. The Department of Mysteries want the artifact back for study and they're willing to pay for it."

Ron and I look at each other. "And it's in this Hozhen guy's vault?" Ron questions.

"As far as we know," Boris replies succinctly. "You will be going to a stronghold in Siberia, he runs his operations from there."

"A little cartoony, don't you think?" I muse; the more I hear of him, the more Hozhen sounds like a comic book villain.

Boris laughs. "Yes, a little. Are you willing to do it?"

"How much?" We ask simultaneously.

"Ten-thousand galleons each," Boris says. "The Department of Mysteries isn't keen on spending more than eighty thousand on the lance, and some of the money must go to the lodge. Still, it's enough to last several years for both of you."

"We're in," Ron says. Usually we'd talk it over, but ten-thousand galleons is nothing to sneeze at, regardless of the danger.

"Although," Boris holds up a hand to calm down the redhead. "I have one request. You will take on another partner. You two are magnificent hitmen. However, you are not thieves, and you need a thief for this heist."

"Fine," I acquiesce; Boris is right, we're killers, not thieves. "Who is it?"

"They're in the office."

* * *

Ron's jaw slackens, and I can't help but stare at the vision of beauty sitting on one of the plush leather couches of Boris' _de facto_ office. Her raven hair and iceberg blue eyes stand out against her ivory skin. She wears robes of a navy blue color that seems to accentuate those eyes further. It has been a few years, but I'd never forget this woman.

"Tracey Davis," I greet cordially, regaining my bearings before Ron does.

She smiles in faux-demure fashion, enjoying Ron's shock and my pitiful greeting far too much. "Hello there, Harry Potter. I'd never expected to see you on this side of the law."

Tracey Davis has long been a staple of Hogwarts' boys' (particularly in our year) wank fantasies: beautiful, cunning, a great conversationalist, universally loved. Snape had assigned us together several times in Potions class, thinking I'd hate it. But, hey, she turned out to be good fun. Hell, it was hard to hate her even as a _Slytherin_. And Gryffindors hated those snakes on principle.

The only person I've known that seemed to genuinely dislike her is Hermione, though I suspected that had more to do with Hermione's jealousy: Tracey was smart and beautiful, and Hermione was insecure about her own looks. Of course, Hermione's something special to look at now that she's comfortable in her own skin (and when she isn't wearing those dreadful heavy woolen skirts), so I would wager the hate has subsided.

I notice it's been an exceptionally long time since Tracey greeted us; Ron still stands in shock, but I chance a response:

"Nor did I expect you to become a cat burglar. Wasn't your family big-time at Gringotts?"

Tracey smirks. "Was is the operative word. My father had disagreements with the goblins over their acquiescence in turning over several select vaults to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. So, our vault was raided, too."

I snort. "Peas in a pod, then."

"Indeed," is her short response as the door opens behind us, revealing Boris.

"I trust you three are well-acquainted," he says.

"Very well acquainted," responds Tracey smoothly. "We'll discuss this further at dinner on Friday night. Shall I book reservations at a restaurant?"

Boris's eyes suddenly light up. I don't like it when his eyes light up. It usually means something—

"You know Miss Davis, Harry here is a splendid chef."

—bad's about to happen.

Tracey turns to me with a propositioning look.

Fuck.

"Alright," I say with a long-suffering sigh. "But don't expect me to make wonders from my flat."

"Nonsense," Boris urges. "You may use my kitchen." He turns to Ron. "You're welcome to bring Miss Granger."

"It's a plan, then," Tracey says before Ron can say anything. "I'll see you Friday." Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and marches out the door, leaving both Ron and I to wonder what exactly we've gotten ourselves into. I chance a look at my wristwatch and swear loudly.

"What?" Ron asks, alarmed.

"We need to get to the Scots Tower before Tonks tears us a new one!"

Ron and I exchange quick goodbyes with a smug Boris (that wanker, strongarming me into cooking a gourmet not only for him, but Ron, Tracey, _and_ Hermione) and follow Tracey's lead, walking out the door.

* * *

Ginny sounds suspiciously smug, like the cat that caught the canary. "You're having me on."

"Not at all, one-hundred percent serious," I say into the receiver, kicking up my legs onto my office table and playing with the standard issue sneakoscope. Maybe being a consultant isn't so bad after all.

Ginny gives a tinkling laugh, drawing my attention back to the conversation. "My _brother_ and _Hermione_, the most boring couple in _history_, have filmed themselves...? You're absolutely sure that Ron the _prude_ and Hermione the _bookworm_ made a porno?"

"Ask Luna if you don't believe me."

"I want to believe you!" Ginny exclaims. "Do you know how much ammunation—"

"—Nition. Ammunition, Gin'."

"—Ammunition I have against Ron now? If Fred or George ever find out about this..."

I smirk. "You know, I could sneak out the video to you. You could hold it over their heads for the rest of our lives."

"Imagine that," Ginny muses softly. "They're fifty and their kids are back from Hogwarts and we can make them do _whatever_ we want."

"Yeah, imagine that," I say, privately noting that the way things are going, there aren't going to be any brown-haired Weasley kids. But I don't tell Ginny that.

We continue talking about our resident pornographic couple and the interest Luna took in them. We make plans for a date later and I shut off the phone. I look up from my desk to see Ron glaring at me at the entrance to the cubicle with his arms crossed:

"Hermione and I are going to make sure you never get that videotape to Gin'."

"Who's to say I don't already have it?" I ask nonchalantly. "That I haven't already made twenty copies ready to be sold to Finch in Manchester?"

Finch is our fence. He sells our stolen goods, and he knows there's good money in decent porn. _Especially_ if it involves two-thirds of the vaunted 'Golden Trio'.

"You wouldn't dare," Ron threatens, but his face blanches at the threat. "Hermione would sodding _murder _me!"

"'The Dirty Duo'? it has a nice ring to it," I grin. "'Can Ronald Weasley sneak his basilisk into Hermione Granger's chamber of secrets?"

"Mate, what the _fuck_."

"What the fuck, indeed," A voice drawls somewhere to my right. I look up to see Tonks shaking her head at us. "If you're done with... _all that_... we have a murder to investigate."

Ron stares at the metamorph oddly. "What do you mean murder? Isn't that what Hit Wizards do?"

"Not when Bloodies are behind it, now up you two get," Tonks orders.

I shrug lazily. "Don't feel like it, Tonks."

"Yeah, I really need to have a shit all of a sudden. Any chance I can use the bog?" Ron questions with a lazy grin.

"Fuck off, Weasley; you can hold it," Tonks growls, causing both Ron and I to jump in surprise:

"You kiss your son goodnight with that mouth?" the redhead exclaims, looking surprised.

"Shut up and come on," interrupts another voice, which belongs to Daphne Greengrass.

I survey the dour blonde, about to bite out a scathing retort when I see Auror-Commander Shepard in the distance, glaring at us. Ron gives me a look that screams 'Abort!', so I close my mouth and signal Greengrass to lead the way.

* * *

Greengrass traipses to Tonks, sighing. "Signs of Blood Magic all over the place. Dark stuff."

"Who's this?" I ask, surveying a black-haired, brown-eyed corpse that looks vaguely familiar, as if I have seen it in a newspaper somewhere. It's raining outside and we're somewhere just outside of muggle Edinburgh.

Tonks looks up from a puncture wound between the third and fourth ribs. "This lovely lad here is Alan Rigby."

"Rigby?" Ron questions. "As in Z—"

"Zacharias Rigby?" Greengrass smirks. "Right-o there, Weaselby."

All three turn to me expectantly.

"Erm... Not that I don't think confusion is wildly entertaining, but can someone explain to me as to _why_ I should know this Rigby bloke?"

"_No one_ ever told you?" Ron asks, furrowing his brows at me. The way he says 'no one' with that Kentish inflection all but confirms that he thought Hannah would have told me before she died.

I shake my head.

Ron shrugs, looking from me to Tonks and back. "Well this whole sad story occurred while you were in the States, so I guess it's not surprising that you're a bit out of the loop."

"Zacharias Rigby is a high-ranking member of the ICW," Greengrass explains before Ron can speak. "He's known for his heavily anti-Magical Creatures outlook and, coincidentally, hates Blood Mages just as much. Alan Rigby would be his estranged son, a wizard living in muggle Edinburgh, and by all accounts, a skag addict. We got our dark detectors in here and the place absolutely reeks of blood magic."

"So... what? They kill his kid to to teach him a lesson, or something?" I ask as Greengrass brings a fist under her chin a perfect thinker's pose:

"No," she shakes her head, wild blonde curls fluttering outward. "At first glance it looks like that, doesn't it? But the dossiers we've collected tell us these people aren't doing this just to teach the man that Blood Mages aren't to be trifled with."

Both Ron and I recall their call for a free magical state in which all creatures could live together in harmony.

"That so-called 'free state' of theirs?" Ron questions, having cottoned on quickly.

Tonks laughs hollowly. "Yeah, probably. I want you two-" she points at Ron and I, "-to start working on the flat. Canvas it, see if you can find any blood that doesn't belong to Rigby, anything at all that can lead us to a killer. Greengrass, Kenton, Barrett, I want you to determine the way the battle went-" Tonks indicates the wrecked flat we stand in and the Aurors stand at attention. "-and write up a full report by tomorrow morning."

Ron barely restrains his grin, eyeballing an annoyed Kenton jovially. The Auror glowers back, which merely encourages Ron; it appears as though Ron has made it his personal mission to be an all-around prick to the guy since our less-than-stellar first meeting. Before the redhead can do anything else, however, I grab him by the forearm and drag the git to the far wall of the flat.

"Yeah, we get you don't like him, Ron," I say, "but play nice for now."

Ron nods grudgingly and whispers the incantation for the black light spell, searching the wall for blood spatter. I do the same and move along the opposite wall, expecting nothing, since the body is on the other side of the room, but it never hurts to check, right?

Several seconds later, I hear Tonks's voice call out:

"Potter, Weasley, get over here."

We trek back to Tonks, who is being crowded by Greengrass, Kenton, and Barrett. As we come up behind them, Greengrass moves out of the to show me what they're all gaping at. I merely raise an eyebrow at what I see: Rigby's shirt has been taken off and his body's been flipped over onto the stomach. What's interesting about this are the deep lacerations in his back, a message as if carved by knife:

_BRING US THE GIRL_

That's all it says. Understandably, no one really knows what the killer's talking about.

"Who the fuck's the girl?" Ron asks the question that's on all of our minds.

"That's the million-galleon question, Ron," responds Tonks, staring, transfixed on the angry red words carved into the man's back.

* * *

A/N: Finally got some time to write! Short, set-up chapter, but it is what it is, I suppose. It's un-beta'd, so forgive any errors I might have missed in my own proofreading. TKoL's taking a back seat to MB right now, mainly because I want to do a rewrite for some of the woeful earlier chapters of TKoL. I want to finish MB before February and start posting rewritten TKoL chapters next March, which will be a tall order, but I'll try!

Chapter Notes:

Skag is UK slang for heroin.

Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass are not friends in this fic; they are acquaintances due to having been in the same House.

Also, 'Ammunation'. Felt it was appropriate what with Grand Theft Auto V coming out soon.

Next chapter: The Aurors visit Zacharias Rigby, a woman tasks Harry and Ron with an odd task, Harry hosts a dinner, and the boys leave for Siberia.

Thanks for reading!


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